A Gilded Cage
by IncitesCringe
Summary: Though the transition from villain to hero was not without its growing pains, Jinx has found herself growing more comfortable in her new role. But when someone from her past returns to deliver an ominous warning of things to come, she finds herself embroiled in a supernatural conspiracy. It is up to her and the other Titans to investigate the strange happenings before all is lost.
1. Chapter 1

**A few years ago I wrote my first fanfiction on this site under a different account. It was my intention to create a story about the turmoil that certain characters face when faces from their past come back to haunt them, as old friends find themselves on opposite sides of the law. I never got around to finishing it due to an ever-growing schedule in my life. And, whenever I took the time to look over it again, I didn't like what I read. I've recently lost access to the email address under the previous account, and so, I saw this as the perfect opportunity to try again with this story—to do it correctly if you would. I've rethought character motivations over the years, and I'd like to think that my writing has improved. Let us hope, yes?**

 **Forgive me for the longwinded explanation. Without further adieu, I hope you enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.**

"This must be that excellent Paris weather I've heard so much about."

It was nightfall, a waning crescent overhanging the Champ de Mars, as the banshee wind shrieked, violently swaying trees and scattering leaves like a volley of arrows. A scurry of panicked would-be picnickers rushed to pack their evening plans: several baguettes filled with pesto and egg, two bottles of sparkling wine, and a tray of pink macarons. The men of the disoriented group barked at each other as the wind whipped their backs, their clothes flapping at a pace that even a hummingbird could appreciate. One let loose a swear as the breeze claimed the macarons and hurled them away, lost to tomorrow's scavengers. Seeing this, one of the more focused women of the group worked hard to save the sandwiches, only for the gust to rip the necklace from her neck, sending her in a mad dash after it.

Leaning against a distant building, a figure watched with mild amusement. He raised a cigarette to his mouth, holding it there as if pondering whether or not to actually inhale. He finally made up his mind, allowing the vapors to flood his body as the cigarette emitted a faint glow. As he released a puff of smoke, one of the retreating picnickers tripped along the pavement, triggering a slight chuckle followed by a wheeze. He observed the cigarette with a marked agitation.

"Bah. So disagreeable."

He discarded it to the side and took his leave into the building he was leaning against prior. His eyes were greeted with a dimly lit chamber, with a bedlam of debris as far as one could gaze: broken tiles, rotted wood, rusted metal scaffolding that has long since crashed to the ground—all relics of a now derelict construction project. What it was intended to be? It was anyone's guess.

The figure cautiously glided across the room until finding the item of his interest, a hatch leading down below. He brushed away the dust from the corroded iron handle and, surely enough, found a just visible etching, a skull sitting above a triangular pattern. Satisfied, he raised the hatch and disappeared into the depths. Using the walls to guide him in the darkness, he continued down the steps into a narrow corridor leading into catacombs. Occasionally, his guiding hand would find itself within a gap in the wall, brushing up against skeletal remains. No doubt these recesses were built into the wall to house the catacomb's original inhabitants. He imagined that nowadays they also lodged those who made the Brotherhood's list. As he proceeded, the architecture grew more modern. Roughly chiseled stonework to neatly lined bricks, mounted torches to overhead lights.

He soon found himself within the grand hall, its scale not unlike the broad amphitheaters of the Greeks and Romans of old. Banners bearing the same insignia from before dotted the walls in an overbearing presence, a testament to arrogance. More of them lay on the floor in tatters, in complement to the mass of disembodied animatronic pieces littering the place—the remains of the Brotherhood's army, he imagined. This was the site of a great conflict, that much was for certain. Aside from the leftover rubbish, the floor was garnished with scorch markings and humanoid indentations, ranging from a few centimeters to an entire three-quarters of a meter deep. Plateauing above him were several platforms, acting as shelves upon which rows upon rows of ice sculptures rested. At least, they were sculptures until one decided to examine them more closely.

It would seem that the rumors were indeed true. When superpowered crime experienced a marked decrease a month prior, people began to offer their explanations for the phenomenon. To some, it was the work of a righteous God, smiting down all those cradling evil within their hearts. Other took note of the ever increasing presence of the Teen Titans, whose membership had skyrocketed around that period. To them, it seemed that the villains were rehabilitated at the sight of decreasing odds, ditching cape and weapons for the mundane life. And then there was talk of an epic clash between the world's superhumans, in which the positive portion of the moral compass incapacitated the negative. It would appear that the lattermost explanation was closest to the truth.

The figure grabbed the items hanging from his side and fumbled about with his face until he was satisfied with how it felt. He allowed himself a deep breath as he stepped away from the safety of the shadows into the embrace of artificial lighting. There were two particularly peculiar traits regarding his appearance:

Firstly, his large stature. His height was well above that of the normal man, and indeed he did tower over most "abnormal" people he has encountered. And although he did not maintain the bulky frame of a bodybuilder, it was apparent that he was muscular, slender as he was. These two characteristics, when combined, pervaded what some around him would come to dub "a brutish vibe".

Secondly, his attire. From the neck down, he looked very much like a man who had stepped out of Victorian England. His chest was embedded within layer upon layer—at the very core a tight-fitting white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and cuffed at the ends of the sleeves; beyond that a red waistcoat, left untucked, its lapels folded over to provide a better view of the dress shirt underneath; beyond that a dark overcoat, unbuttoned and reaching down to his knees, its lapels likewise folded over and fastened upon the shoulders to provide a dignified appearance. Paired with these were dark trousers, which reached down to his ankles, covering the tops of his black leather boots, the tips adorned with a white swirling design. Upon each hand he wore a black leather glove.

Wrapped around his head (leaving but his face exposed), and reaching down beneath the collar of the dress shirt, was a coarse black fabric. Stiffly attached to this garment—much to his discomfort—was a beaked mask, made from a blanched porcelain, save for the eyes, which were made from glass of a crimson hue. To complete the outfit, he wore upon his head a wide brimmed dark leather hat, upon which ran an ebony ribbon.

He reached within his overcoat, producing from it a wooden cane, cut from oak in such a way to provide him with a perpendicular grip at the top. He tossed it into the air, catching it at its base. Looking back towards the bottommost shelf, he made a vertical swing, the grip catching the top of the platform. With a yank, he embedded it there, the tiles and underlying foundation cracking with little resistance to the brutal force. He gave another gentler tug to ensure its stability before hoisting himself up. He then retrieved his cane, undamaged from his violent climbing tactic. Resting it upon his shoulder, he sauntered across the platform, inspecting the encased villains.

The first one to catch his eye was the Brain. The figure cocked his head at the sight: a lifeless jar trapped within a pillar of ice. Even the glob of fat within did not move. He took note of the lack of the Brain's usual transportation vessel. It would appear that an escape attempt was made. It piqued his interest. Who else tried to get away? And did they succeed? Much to his satisfaction, as he looked further down the line, he found Immortus, Monsieur Mallah, and Madame Rouge all likewise trapped with expressions of terror forever frozen upon their faces. He smiled and took a step back to admire the irony of it all. Not too long ago, they had intended a similar end for him. Fate is fickle, it would seem.

Continuing onwards, he found himself stopping again for another familiar face: the H.I.V.E. Headmistress. Of course, that was all figurative, as her face was buried within the chest of another elderly gentleman clad in white. Her attire was a dead giveaway, however. He stared at the two, mulling over his breath whether or not to release them. A year ago, he'd have done it in a heartbeat. But with his tenure at the Academy having been terminated for some time now, he owed no loyalty to the organization and those associated with it. Furthermore, freeing them would do little if anything to advance his agenda. With this in mind, he left them to their icy tombs.

It took time for him to find another that captured his attention, though he had passed several villains on the way. An overweight man who looked as if he had stepped out of a sci-fi television program. A slim blue man in the garb of a stage magician. A giant artificial heart. None of them were what he was looking for. The same question burned in his mind as he wandered along: did anyone manage to escape?

He stopped again by a group of villains unceremoniously heaped upon each other. Yes, he recognized this miserable little pile of rubbish. Gizmo, See-More, Kyd Wykkyd, Billy Numerous, and Mammoth. He was surprised a group as exclusive as the Brotherhood would allow students fresh out of the Academy to join them, especially students as unfocused as these. But, what was he saying? These days, even a jaywalker could acquire membership in the organization. His interest lost, he walked away from the group. She was not amongst them.

He continued searching amongst the iced villains, occasionally using his cane to reach a new platform. Yet, for all his searching, he still could not find her. He was aware that it was her very dream to join an organization as prestigious as the Brotherhood and that she was indeed ambitious enough to garner their attention. Yet she was nowhere to be seen amongst the encased villains. Could she have escaped? It would be to his relief if she did, but the point still stood. He wanted to find her. Sensing his options growing limited, he moved towards the machine maintaining the stasis of the villains and released the miserable little pile of rubbish.

…

Gizmo was the first to regain consciousness, his balded head perking up and groggily analyzing every aspect of the room, much as a person waking up from a heavy night of drinking would, trying to remember what had happened before passing out. His head swayed somewhat, indicating that he was still woozy—either from the month-long stasis or the beating that had preceded it. His eyes finally fixated on the figure.

"Dracul?" he managed to croak out.

"Sleep well?"

The tyke shook his head rapidly, his eyes widening as he began to realize the implications of what he was seeing. He fell backwards from the pile out of fear, squeaking out, "Dracul!"

The figure rolled his head in exasperation.

"Yes, yes, Gizmo. How very observant of you."

The boy was visibly shaken. Surely, he did not expect to be released from his frozen prison, let alone by his least favorite professor. No doubt, he'd have expected Dracul to number amongst those locked in an icy stasis, if not amongst those old bones in the catacombs. Indeed, Gizmo was there to witness Dracul be unceremoniously dragged away by Brotherhood soldiers. Brother Blood made sure to make it a public event. When all was said and done, Dracul would need to remember to thank Blood for that, personally.

The boy's compatriots began to stir, each following a similar transition to Gizmo's, scanning the room as they tried to piece together what happened. And much like Gizmo, when their eyes trained on Dracul, they were launched into a fit of stammering and disbelief.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

They continued to babble, aside from Kyd Wykkyd that is. Dracul let out a heavy sigh.

"Certainly a month's slumber did not leave you all incoherent as well as inept."

See-More was the first to shape up, hopping up into a stiff salute, stuttering out, "No sir!"

The others soon followed his example. It was a rather grand display, the five of these teenagers whipped up into a disciplined salute. Why, even Billy displayed a sense of soldierly class. Mammoth as well, though, admittedly, Dracul always had a bit of a soft spot for the giant. Whenever he was around, nobody noticed Dracul's own staggering size.

"I see fortune has been kind to you…" Dracul began, gesturing to the other encased villains and the shambles of the Brotherhood base.

That was a mistake on his part. The illusion of discipline shattered, as the boys all began bickering amongst themselves, forcing blame upon each other for the predicament they had been in.

"You dragged us into this, Gizmo." Mammoth growled as he picked up the pint-sized boy genius by the neck of his onesie.

"Put me down you crud-muncher! You were the one lazy enough to not finish the job with Cyborg."

"How was I supposed to know he'd get out of that ditch?" the giant lamented as he dropped the boy.

"That's why you go down there and make sure he doesn't, pie-for-brains!" Gizmo barked back.

Billy had doubled, he and his clone pounding accusing fingers into See-More's chest.

"And where were you when we were skedaddlin'? We could have used your help." he demanded.

See-More's eye rolled, revealing a question mark.

"When did you guys try to leave?"

The Billies turned towards Kyd Wykkyd.

"Why in the Sam Hill didn't you give him the memo? Had something better to do?" one asked.

"Maybe he was busy flirting with Angel, Billy." the other chimed in.

"Good one, Billy."

Both began giggling to themselves. The mute glared at the two without amusement, before smacking the original upside the head.

"Ow! What was that for?

"He's mute, dummy." See-More chastised.

"That don't give him an excuse."

"Are you normally this stupid or is this just a special occasion?"

They continued with this for a good five minutes as Dracul stood observing with annoyance. It was easy to see why these five failed to escape. He thrust the end of his cane towards Gizmo in one swift movement, stopping just at his Adam's Apple, before raising the boy's chin to look back towards him. The boy, sensing the erratic convulsions of the stick, took a nervous gulp. The others dropped the discussion completely and stiffened up.

Dracul took a deep breath, regaining his composure before trying again.

"I see fortune has been kind to you. But it appears to me that it was kinder unto misfortune."

They did not seem to follow. A more blunt approach, perhaps?

"One of your friends is missing. I'd like you to enlighten me as to why that is."

Gizmo seemed to be the first to catch on to Dracul's meaning, and appointed himself as the group's spokesman.

"Jinx? We aren't friends with her anymore. She decided to swoon over some wannabe track star. Because 'Oh, he can run fast.'"

He made gestures in the air as he impersonated her.

"Those two barf-brains are the only reason we got stuck here in the first place. Why, if she were here right now, I'd—"

The boy was cut short, feeling the cane pressed against his Adam's Apple.

"Spare me the bravado, if you would." Dracul hissed.

"Yes sir."

"So she and this other individual, they left you here and escaped?"

"Escape? What escape? She's in cahoots with them. Those good-for-nothing Titans. Her 'new friend' is one of them." Gizmo responded bitterly.

"Oh?"

Dracul flung his cane back over his shoulder. Now this was an unexpected turn of events. It most certainly was not what he wanted to hear. Much had happened in the course of his absence, it would seem. He paced back and forth, mulling over the repercussions this would have on his plans. At last, he decided it was of little consequence. It was not likely he'd encounter her, perhaps for the better. At the very least, her safety allowed him peace of mind. That being said, he still found himself curious about her whereabouts. He turned back towards the group of graduates.

"Where do you suppose she is now?"

Gizmo shrugged.

"If I had to guess, probably with Kid Flash in his hometown. Keystone City."

The location hit Dracul like an upset punch to the stomach.

"Damn it all," he thought to himself, "Of all the cities in the world, why'd she choose to reside there?"

He strolled over to the edge of the platform.

"Thank you kindly, gentlemen."

Gizmo called out to him, "Wait! What about us?"

"What about you?" Dracul retorted.

"You're going to see Jinx? Take us with you."

"Whatever for?"

Gizmo did not answer. See-More spoke up meekly.

"For… revenge?"

The rest of them hopped onto the bandwagon, half-heartedly expressing their approval for the suggestion. Dracul sighed. They certainly were a sentimental lot, especially for someone who had just abandoned them. He supposed it couldn't hurt. If anything, he might be able to find some use for them in his own agenda, once the damage control with Jinx was said and done.

"Very well. You boys may come along. For the sake of 'revenge'."

They began to celebrate jovially amongst themselves, high-fiving and grinning at the news.

"However, in choosing to follow me, you bind yourselves within my employment."

"A job?" one of the Billies interrupted in disgust.

"Adequate compensation shall be accommodated to you, do not concern over that. But you will follow my orders to the letter. No matter how unpalatable it is to you. No matter how confounding or pointless it may seem. When I tell you to jump, the response I expect is 'How high?'. Are we at an understanding?"

"What exactly are you planning?" Gizmo asked skeptically.

"As of now? Consolidation." Dracul replied.

"For what?"

"Do not fret over those details as of yet, Gizmo. For now, I say it is time that we dropped in on dear Jinx."


	2. Chapter 2

**Greetings, again. Allow me to apologize for how late this update came. I've been out of town for a week and a half, and my flight back was delayed due to a gas leak at the local airport's FAA tower. I hope to be more punctual in the future.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.**

It was a very annoying telephone, to be honest. It had all the qualities of a very annoying telephone. For one, it was a landline, which in itself reserved the phone a place amongst objects of ill-repute. Because being hooked to one place is a curiosity of a restrictive, obsolete past, one that nobody was in any particular rush to return to. And also because getting up to answer the phone is too much of a hassle. Furthermore, the thing utilized sticky buttons that stubbornly refused to recognize your input when you pressed down upon them. You could drop a boulder on the thing and you still wouldn't get a number to register. Most damning of all was the ringtone, which was very reminiscent of a generic stock sound effect that mimicked the hackneyed blare of an office phone from the 90's. The kind that you could download off the internet for free.

The contempt of everyone present was manifold when the blasted thing had the audacity to start clamoring about like a tone-deaf tenor practicing his staccato. It was too early for such nonsense. Dawn's light had only just begun to creep through the closed shades of the cluttered office as a petite foreign-looking man, Richards presumably, "sipped" away at his coffee with all the subtlety of a high-powered vacuum cleaner. _Slurp!_ He was underdressed for the office setting, being clothed in khakis and a Hawaiian print t-shirt. His dark hair was slicked upwards to provide the look of a stereotypical business executive. In sharp contrast to this, he also sported a horseshoe mustache that she imagined was supposed to make him appear more masculine. It didn't help. Richards picked up the phone and opened with a jittery voice.

"Hello. Richards here."

On the other end of the line was another man—Sullerman, if she had to guess—who, as if by coincidence, was likewise petite and foreign-looking, and likewise sported a horseshoe mustache. However, this man's likewise dark hair sat unkempt upon his forehead, and his attire consisted of ketchup-stained overalls and a Godzilla t-shirt dotted with bread crumbs and sesame seeds. His voice was gruff, but in a forced manner. If she was honest with herself, everything about this seemed forced.

"Hello, Mr. Richards. I am calling to notify one important thing. That is to say, the motive behind this call is to alert you of a matter of which I deem significant to you."

Richards leaned back in his seat and thoughtfully nodded and tilted his head, as if contemplating on this proposition at its innermost. He took several more sips of his coffee, spinning the mug about in his hand as he inspected its contents, as if some deeper meaning could be acquired from the churned liquid. Finally, he replied.

"You seem quite interesting, share your thoughts."

Sullerman allowed himself a nasally laugh, before forcing his face back into a solemn statue. The transition was poorly-done.

"Sorry, but I won't give my name and place of residence to you. That is to say, I am consciously refusing to disclose information that you would find vital in tracking my whereabouts following this discussion should you come to discover my dubious intentions. Furthermore, I am not sorry."

"As it is. Tell me more about this important matter." Richards replied, seemingly unfazed by his caller's aside.

Sullerman tapped his foot against the ground as he himself leaned back, his eyes narrowing and a self-satisfied smile creeping across his face.

"I need some money," he started, before hastily transitioning back to sobriety, "Immediately."

"Money? This is not a bank."

"Yes. I am aware fully of my demand. That is to say, it is my conscious intention to make attempt to extort you for capital."

"What is the motive behind this demand?"

"The motive behind this demand is the necessity for money."

This single utterance triggered a cascade of intellectually-offended figures to scour the small, dimly lit room for exits, leaving behind a flurry of popcorn and soft drinks. She did not budge. She would cling to her butter-scented plush seat as long as he did his. The whole thing was on his tab.

"I am not supplying money for necessities."

"So… you are not prepared to give money? That is to say, you are consciously refusing to provide me with the capital of which I am attempting to relieve you?"

"Yes, I'm not."

She could sense his patience wearing thin. Every line of dialogue came across as a slap in the cheek, each time striking harder as the stupidity of the portrayed scenario escalated. As her cat-like pupils scanned his face, she found herself choking back a giggle. He was one of the most laidback guys she knew, though you wouldn't be able to tell right now, with the curmudgeonly expression rooted upon his face.

"Hm, yes. I realize that. It is because you don't have money? That is to say, does your reluctance to provide capital stem from the want of capital to provide—"

She could feel him trembling beside her, his fists clenched, the red elastic covering his fingers growing translucent. He was reaching breaking point.

"That is to say, you do not have the capacity to properly fulfill my demand, in which case you might have otherwise acquiesced it?"

Uh oh.

"Or is it rather—that is to say—"

Kid Flash exploded into a barrage of expletives—some of which would have earned her a caning back at the Academy—as he shelled the theatre screen with bags of popcorn like mortar fire. Jinx maintained a stony disposition for the duration of the episode, spending every ounce of her strength to fight back the urge to laugh. When he finally ran out of ammunition, Kid Flash slumped back into his seat, defeated, running a sore hand through the fiery spikes lining his head as he recomposed himself.

"This is a bad movie." he finally managed.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, champ."

He gave her an apologetic smile.

"I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I'm not as big of a movie buff as I made myself out to be."

She widened her eyes and shook her head in feigned disbelief.

"No… you're telling me that the Kid Flash lied?"

"What can I say?" he chuckled, "You've been a bad influence on me."

"And here you are placing the blame on me. I guess chivalry really is dead." she pouted, pursing her lips.

"C'mon, throw me a bone here! I'm trying to show you a good time."

She tilted her head side to side, taking this tidbit into consideration.

"I guess there's some merit to that. But you did just waste my whole evening on 'Richards v. Sullerman: Quest for Capital'."

"Is there ever a night wasted when we're together?"

Seeing the smirk creeping onto her face he hastily interjected.

"Don't answer that."

He rose from the plush seat, jumping into a bout of leg extensions, his joints creaking and his muscles contracting. He always insisted on stretching after sitting for an extended period of time, in order to "stay loose". All the great runners did it, he asserted. In spite of how eccentric it made the couple look in public, Jinx did not mind it. She always got an enjoyable view or two as he unwittingly showcased himself. Occasionally, when he rotated his neck side to side, he'd catch her admiring gaze and her eyes would abruptly dart away, her cheeks burning hot for being caught in the act. As if ignorant of her prying, he'd keep going, allowing her to peer back and appreciate his body once more. But if she inspected his face closely, she'd find that his lips were now curled upwards into a self-content smile.

After bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, he rested back onto his heels, satisfied with how his limbs felt.

"C'mon, slowpoke. Let's get out of here before Sullerman tries again."

They exited the cramped, dark space, passing by the theatre's only clerk—Kid Flash shot a choleric face at him—and finding themselves in Keystone City's Freight House District. The Freight House District, otherwise known as the Stockyards, was an old storage depot from back in the city's heyday as the hub of the livestock and meatpacking industries along the Transcontinental Railroad. Since then, it had been revitalized as an entertainment district. Derelict warehouses became fully-fledged retail centers and housed several award-winning restaurants, known notably for barbeque. Indeed, the theatre they were just in was supposedly a breakroom for the laborers back in the day. The foreman had apparently installed a projector within the room, allowing workers to watch the up-and-coming silent films in between bouts of heavy lifting. It had been purchased and retrofitted with plush seats to resemble modern cinemas—all while maintaining its historical atmosphere.

Kid Flash offered his hand to her. She did not take it, but instead placed her own hands at her hips in defiance. Certainly he didn't think it would be that easy? Smiling at the challenge, he shrank down to his knees, clasping his hands in a pleading gesture.

"C'mon, Jinx. Forgive me."

No doubt it was an embarrassing sight: Kid Flash groveling at the feet of an ex-villainess. Back in her H.I.V.E. Five days, she'd probably take a snapshot and include it in her resume with the Brotherhood of Evil. He didn't seem to mind any humiliation this would attract, however, persistent in his prostration as if she were royalty. Neither did she yield. No flowers? No box of chocolates in hand? That was a drastic breach of protocol.

"Would a plate of Keystone City's finest wash out the taste of that movie?" he proposed, pointing at one of the nearby barbeque joints.

Cold. While to an outsider this altercation would have appeared to be a girl holding her affection for ransom, it was in actuality a test of resolve—no doubt he realized this too. To what length would he travel to open her up again? How much was holding her hand really worth to him? While the wallowing was appreciated, the fact that the exchange rate of her touch currently sat at a plate of burnt ends did no wonders for her self-esteem. She remained stone-faced, raising a single eyebrow: what else you got?

"Jinx, I love you."

Getting warmer. Another girl might have caved in at this point. Those were indeed the three golden words that every girl wanted to hear—the ones that countless women have tried to pry from the mouths of aloof partners with no avail. The same ones that could make a girl blissfully melt away in the hands of a seasoned sweet talker. But not Jinx. She'd been in enough relationships to know that talk was cheap, the honeycoated variety especially. As such, she didn't let up her disposition: she intended to ride this out for all it was worth.

He studied her stagnant expression for some time with those big blue eyes. Like glistening sapphires, he always joked, telling her that she walked out with something far more valuable than an old necklace that night at the museum. Cheesy bastard.

As if roused by a revelation, he hopped back to his feet with a fresh grin. Her own face, having been vacant of all emotion, gave way to a smirk. She couldn't wait to hear what stupid thing came out of his mouth this time. Imagine her surprise when he wordlessly ran his fingers behind her ear, reaching down to cradle her chin.

Hot. Red hot. Her pale cheeks flushed with pink as those big blue sapphires captivated her own gaze. As he leaned in, her heart began to thump erratically, like a drummer enthralled. She drew her breaths deeper—quicker. His nose nuzzled against hers. She bit back her bottom lip. The anticipation within her fluttered to the brink as she braced for impact. And—

"Am I interrupting something?"

It never came. Rather, he grimaced. She found herself doing the same—there was a rat amongst them. They both turned in the direction of the intrusion. The origin of the voice was a decrepit man in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit standing at the end of the sidewalk. He was scrawny, his arms like twigs and his legs like stilts. His face was cleanly shaven but pallid and gaunt. His eyes, which seemed yellow in juxtaposition to his skin tone, appeared to burst from their sockets, an effect that was exacerbated by his darkened eyelids. What was left of his receding grey hair was slicked back in a stately manner. For all intents and purposes, he was a cadaver in a suit.

"What do you want, Antoine?" Kid Flash spat at him.

The man approached them, his arms outreached in a faux-friendly manner. Jinx examined his bony hands—his fingers were like talons.

"Why so prickly, Slim? I only wanted to check in on my favorite superheroes. Look at you kids, the way you snuggle up against each other like rabbits. Fucking adorable. The press eats that kind of shit up, not to mention the tourists."

Antoine paused, as if scheming.

"Why, we ought to put you two on some postcards. Keystone City's very own power couple."

Kid Flash offered no response.

"Y'see, here I was in the Freight House District. Had a meeting at Dyson's with some of the guys from City Council. You ever tried their brisket? To die for."

He patted his stomach with a crooked-toothed grin.

"Lo and behold I catch you two in the corner of my eye, and I knew I just had to stop by and see what you've have been up to."

His eyes narrowed, the friendly façade dropping.

"After all… that is my job."

He paced away from them, stroking his chin as if an imaginary beard lay there.

"Your biweekly report is coming up soon." he mused.

"You'll get it." Jinx interjected.

"Let the adults speak, dear."

He didn't even turn to look at her, greatly enunciating the condescension in his words. She stared daggers at him, her hands glowing pink, but she relented as she reminded herself of the metal collar enwrapping her ankle: it was hardly a fashion accessory. Kid Flash seethed but likewise did nothing, barring his arms to his side with great effort. It was at this point that she noticed how empty this bustling slice of town was right now. Not a single soul could be observed on these streets. Go figure. Like a skunk, Antoine had a way of driving crowds away.

"Slim?"

He was facing them again, his eyes intently fixated on Kid Flash, scrutinizing him.

"You'll get it." Kid Flash repeated her through gritted teeth.

"Anything I can look forward to?"

"Midas Corp."

"Angelo's boys, huh? How's that going for you?"

"It'd be going better if you actually let us investigate his offices." Jinx snapped.

"You need a warrant to do that, sweetheart," Antoine retorted, shaking his head with disapproval at Kid Flash, "Haven't you taught this con anything about law?"

"We'd have a warrant by now if your boys actually pinched the guys we catch muscling." she hissed back.

Antoine chuckled to himself, reaching into his pocket to pull out a switch with a big red dial on it.

"We really need to get you a muzzle, doll."

He turned the dial with his thumb, triggering a jolt of searing pain from her ankle collar. It did not remain localized, however, but coursed throughout her body, eliciting convulsions wherever it went. Her flesh felt as if it was tearing from her bones, while vital organs seemed set to rupture at any moment. Her legs grew wobbly. Breathing became a concerted effort. It was as if someone was strangling her, with the added caveat that her lungs were punctured; any amount of air she gathered was meagre and insufficient. She grinded her teeth, defiantly refusing to scream—Antoine would not get that satisfaction. But as she glowered up at him, she found that his attention was not directed towards her flickering figure. Rather, he was inspecting Kid Flash with mild amusement, his eyes maliciously goading the speedster to do something.

Kid Flash stood there, fists clenched and body trembling. But again, he did nothing. Satisfied with the obedience, Antoine moved the dial back to its original position. Jinx crashed down to the pavement, gasping for breath. She entered a violent coughing fit, each hack sending a sharp twinge through her chest. Finally, she spat out a thick splotch of blood onto the sidewalk before wiping her mouth. Antoine yawned.

"Forgive me, kids. These old bones can only take so much excitement in one night."

He took a glance at his watch, a Rolex, before flashing a wicked smile at them.

"Don't stay out too late now."

He started to take his leave, sticking the switch back into his pocket.

"Have a pleasant evening, Kid Flash."

He sauntered a few paces away before darting his eyes towards Jinx's crumpled figure.

"Mutt."

Kid Flash bolted at him, knuckles at the ready to knock the bastard's head off. The collision never came, with the fist stopping a few inches short of Antoine's skull, restrained by hesitation. The old man stopped, but did not turn to face them.

"You didn't try to hit me just now, did you Slim?"

Kid Flash released a huff of air, bringing his arm back to his side in resignation.

"Silly question. Course you didn't. Because surely by now, you've realized what would happen to that little minx of yours if you pulled a stunt like that."

With that, Antoine trailed onwards, disappearing around the corner of one of the freight houses. Kid Flash dashed back towards her, sitting her up against the wall of the theatre. He embodied all the behaviors of an overprotective parent, frantically patting her down for broken bones, turning her face side to side for bruises and scars, and anxiously gaping into her mouth and nostrils for anything out of the ordinary. The unease in his eyes were apparent, though not once during this procedure did his line of sight meet hers. Finally, he let out a sigh of relief, plopping himself down at the end of the sidewalk, facing away from her, his head drooped low out of shame. Jinx laid her own head against the wall, wincing at the tenseness of her neck.

The whole ordeal was partially his fault, partially Robin's. When the Brotherhood of Evil collapsed, one month ago, there was a brief honeymoon period for Jinx. No one seemed to remember her affiliation with the Academy and the H.I.V.E. Five. Robin was prepared to offer her honorary admission to the Teen Titans, complete with her own communicator, with everyone's blessing. Even Raven gave a warm smile and a nod of approval—Raven of all people! The federal government was not impressed. To the Central Bureau of Intelligence, her involvement in the downfall of the Brotherhood was not "substantial evidence of rehabilitation". Indeed, they insisted that she be incarcerated for a period ranging anywhere from 10 years to life.

At Kid Flash's behest, Robin organized a parley of sorts, of which he would sit as her representative. She was forced to wait outside the conference room, much to her chagrin. Apparently, she was not to have a hand in determining her own fate. Robin was sweet enough to take her input beforehand as to what was acceptable to her and what was not; he even went as far as to take frequent bathroom breaks throughout the negotiations to inform her of the current terms and how he intended to proceed—no doubt the C.B.I. dignitaries were livid.

When all was said and done, a group of flustered government workers stomped out of the room, with a triumphant Robin in tow. He had taken them to the cleaners: her sentence was reduced to a probation, served in Keystone City under the supervision of Kid Flash and the local marshal for a period of up to five years, or until she terminated a hazard of "notable threat" to the city's denizens. The terms were lax: she was to meet with the marshal once a month, but was otherwise free to do as she wished—no need to notify anyone beforehand.

Giddy as a schoolgirl, she sprang into Robin's shocked arms, eliciting a sour look from Kid Flash. This was a great victory for her. It was a punishment in name only. At worst, she'd have to suffer Kid Flash's keen insistence that she refer to him as mentor. As much as she loathed the idea of giving him that satisfaction, it was certainly preferable to doing time.

Enter Antoine Lepellier, Deputy City Manager of the city of Keystone City. He was a leftover relic from the city's machine politics days under Boss Timothy Pendleton. From her understanding, Antoine was one of his last appointments, made sometime in the 50's, before a federal judge managed to indict him—for tax evasion, of all things—and reformists descended upon the cesspool of graft, voting fraud, gambling rings, and prostitution disdainfully referred to as "Tim's Town".

Antoine miraculously managed to keep his job in the wave of layoffs that ensued following the deconstruction of Pendleton's machine. And when a new City Council was voted in, appointing a new City Manager, Antoine was once again named Deputy City Manager. And in the cycle after that. And the one after that. Part of it was because Antoine was admittedly very capable at his job. Under his oversight, major department projects went ahead unhindered by bureaucratic red tape, and the city coffers always seemed to be in a surplus. Indeed, the people of Keystone City, having known only him for more than two generations, felt little reason to disrupt the status quo. You would think, though, that at some point this man would have run out of steam—he was going on 90 now. Every year people predicted that they'd read his name in the obituaries. Every year he confounded everyone by emerging from December sprightlier than ever. Pendleton's legacy couldn't seem to die.

When Jinx and Kid Flash arrived in Keystone City, they found not the marshal there to greet them, but Antoine, who promptly informed them that he was to be Jinx's probation officer. How he managed to get his hands on a contract under federal jurisdiction was beyond her, but he wasted no time flexing his power. New terms appeared in the compromise Robin worked so hard to secure.

"The offender is to report to the probationary officer—that is to say myself—once every two weeks," Antoine began explaining to her, taking a slight pause, his jaundiced eyes filled with murderous glee, "Failure to comply is to forfeit her life."

If her face had any color, it would have all drained out.

"The offender is to abide by a curfew of no later than midnight. Failure to comply is to forfeit her life."

He went on like this for some time, always looking back to her when he said those three terrible words: forfeit her life.

"The offender is not to travel outside the city limits of Keystone City. Failure to comply is to forfeit her life."

After 10 heart sinking minutes of this, he came to the final term.

"The offender is to wear an ankle collar, courtesy of S.T.A.R. Labs, which will monitor her location and administer… persuasive maneuvers… in instances of bad behavior. Failure to comply is to forfeit her life."

He held the collar up for her to see, relishing the horror on her face. As he shackled it around her foot, she cried out, "You're bluffing! You can't deliver capital punishment without the due process of law! Without indictment by a grand jury!"

He stood up and pinched her cheeks with those cold, shriveled talons, his fingernails digging into her face.

"You're a darling with that naiveté of yours. Y'know that? Why yes, indeed, under the 5th Amendment, a person is entitled to the due process of law, which includes, in cases of capital punishment, a grand jury."

She winced as he ripped out a tuft of her pink hair, raising it up for her to see.

"But you aren't exactly a person, are you?"

Without another word, he whipped out a switch from his pocket, upon which was a big red dial. Casting a leer at her, he turned it with his thumb. She didn't know she was capable of screaming like that. A week later, she read in the news that the local marshal had died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Faulty heater, apparently.

Jinx opened her eyes, greeted by the nighttime sky overlooking the Freight House District. She peered over at Kid Flash, his face buried in his arms. Poor lad. He did everything in his power to comfort her—to take her mind off her imposed servitude. That's what this movie night was: a way to take her mind off it all. But his inability to stand up to Antoine robbed him of all feelings of self-worth. The guilt haunted him at night. On the occasions when he stayed with her at the cramped, cockroach-infested apartment Antoine had made her abode, she awoke to find him staring at the low hung ceiling, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, salted tears trailing down his cheeks. Nothing she said could ease his pain—no words could assure him that he was not at fault.

They couldn't live like this. It wasn't possible. Not for another five years. But the only other way for Jinx to break free from her legal bindings was to bag a criminal—a big one. For this reason, she hounded away at Midas Corp with all her resolve, but it was to no avail. Countless times she and Kid Flash caught Angelo's men in the midst of extortions, drug trafficking, attempted kidnappings, and every other gang-related crime under the sun. And countless times the KCPD would give those men a friendly drive back to the Satyr to turn them loose again. Unless some other peril poked its head, it seemed extremely unlikely that Jinx and Kid Flash would escape Antoine's clutches.

She stared up at the waning crescent hovering above them. The night was still young. They had a few more hours before the curfew. There was no way in Hell that she was going to let the evening end on Antoine's visit. Grabbing ahold of the brick wall she had been leaning against, she slowly rose to her feet, her legs trembling under her weight. She managed to waddle over to Kid Flash, placing a single hand on his shoulder. His head perked up.

"I think I could use that dinner now."


	3. Chapter 3

**Fair warning: there is a particularly foulmouthed character in this chapter, who happens to deliver a particularly foulmouthed monologue. If that is something that you consider to be in poor taste, you might want to skip that part. You'll know it when you see it.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.**

Antoine was right: the brisket was excellent. The cut of beef was charred black, its crispy exterior tasting of brown sugar and cayenne pepper, amongst other spices. The underlying meat was tender and moist, with slight layers of fat woven in so that it resembled a marble cake. Like a marble cake, each bite melted in your mouth, the rich scent of hickory and oak pervading throughout, indicating that the slab was fire cooked on the slow and low. It was a far cry from the tasteless rubber Jinx had been accustomed to during her time at the Academy. She strictly remembered barbeque days at the H.I.V.E. being miserable affairs for all but those who maintained a masochistic palate—oh, and Mammoth.

The venue was likewise impressive. Dyson's had left the basic layout of the depot mostly untouched, from the weathered brick foundation to the translucent arched windows. Hammering home the authenticity, the entrance was an unpainted wooden ramp leading up to a corroded freight door, a faded "A3" still visible above it. Inside, a few liberties were taken to promote a fine dining atmosphere. Mahogany wood made up the floor and the furniture, which upon further inspection appeared to be painstakingly handcrafted. The room was intentionally dim, with the only sources of light being the candlelit chandeliers hanging low from the ceiling rafters. Dotting the walls were diagrams of the different cuts of beef and pork as well as rustic—and damn near reverential—images of bombastic bovines. From the corner in which they were seated, Jinx could make out a watercolor of a heifer valiantly grazing along an unkempt field to form the pattern of a cross. Classy.

"Remember to breathe, champ."

Kid Flash was shamelessly shoveling away at his third plate of burnt ends, after having vigorously gnawed away at the pristinely polished bones that once constituted an order of lamb ribs. In another five minutes, he'd surely be imploring her to be charitable with her own meal. Any other night she'd be chastising him for such an embarrassing public display. As much as she enjoyed being the center of attention, she always found herself shrinking in her seat as scores of alarmed eyes scrutinized her boyfriend's gluttony. But tonight, she was more than willing to overlook it all—she was just relieved to see him returning to high spirits after their encounter with Antoine. As such, she couldn't muster more than a few teasing remarks.

"You gonna eat the plate while you're at it?" Jinx asked, prompting a toothy grin from the speedster.

"Would you begrudge a growing boy some nourishment?"

"I guess not," she shrugged, sliding her leftover brisket towards him, "Knock yourself out."

"You're the best, Jinxie."

She examined him skeptically. For all the food he managed to shove in his mouth, his body never seemed to suffer for it: no weight gain, no bloating—not even a stomachache. Cyborg and Mammoth would be proud.

"I just can't fathom where it all goes."

"Same place it goes for everyone else. Of course, you factor in the superfast metabolism and—"

"The less I hear about this the better." Jinx quickly interrupted.

"I usually get cut off there," Kid Flash chuckled, "You know, we've yet to hit a buffet together. I know this great Chinese place called Iron Age. Not very authentic, but the food's decent for the price of admission."

She shuddered at the mental image: his jaw unhinging like a snake's to engulf a tray of crab rangoons.

"I take it that's a no? I'm pretty restrained at buffets, you know."

"Meaning?"

"I only eat my dollars' worth." he replied, a hint of mischief in his tone.

"Right. So you bankrupt the place."

He let out a resounding guffaw, giving her hand a gentle squeeze of approval for her punchline. He straightened up as their waiter—Darrell was his name if she recalled correctly—descended upon the table. Darrell was a rather pudgy man with rosy cheeks and a seemingly sanguine disposition. His enthusiasm for the restaurant and the craft of barbeque was evident in the way he jabbered on about the different dishes in meticulous detail. Thus, upon noticing the bronze pin on his breast pocket, Jinx made little of it. It was shaped like the state of Texas, picturing a snake being strangled by a pair of tongs, the words "NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT" emblazoned on it. The man took his barbeque seriously, so what?

"Everything tasting delicious over here?" he inquired excitedly, his breath running short.

"Everything's excellent." Kid Flash replied.

At this validation, the server's fists clenched, back arching and chest heaving, his shoulders locking forward violently. His face contorted into a mess of wrinkled folds as if he were freefalling at terminal velocity, cheeks wrenching back to reveal a set of chattering teeth.

"You alright, buddy?"

He began aggressively stamping at the ground with his left foot. Each eye projected from its socket, with a complete lack of coordination between them. Nose twitching, he lurched forward against Kid Flash, pressing his face against the boy's, taking a distinctly audible whiff of the flame-colored hair. What the Hell?!

"Tell me what was excellent about it." he demanded through bated breath.

Kid Flash sent a confused glance her way, but she was likewise stupefied. Did she detect what she thought she did in that tone? She peered at the other patrons of the restaurant, each person utterly immersed in their own little world. No, it couldn't be. Someone would have perked up if that were the case. She had to be imagining it. Maybe she was still a bit delirious after the run-in with Antoine? The collar did have a way of leaving her disoriented. But the sniffing with the hair…

"Well—uh—" Kid Flash stammered, "The burnt ends were… not burnt?"

Darrell let out a grunt, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Yes? And what else?"

That wasn't a purr she heard just now, was it? There was no way that was a purr. Not a chance… right? You couldn't be so forward with a customer like that and expect to keep your job, especially when dealing with minors—super powered ones at that. Certainly this guy wouldn't dare pull a stunt like that. Certainly she had to be imagining it. Certainly it was just some sort of waking fever dream on account of that damn collar. But if that was the case… how come Kid Flash was in on it?!

"I, uh, don't taste any creosotes on the char."

"Yes. More."

Jinx felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as Darrell sprawled his meaty arms over the table, roughly fondling the cloth with his fingers. Bad touch! Creeper alert! Is that why he was being so nice earlier? To butter them up for this? Kid Flash's eyes darted towards her, transmitting an ocular plea for help. She remained frozen in her seat. What did he expect her to do?! Stab the guy with a fork? Dump a glass of water on him? What was she supposed to say to Antoine?

 _Sorry Mr. Antoine, sir. The waiter was pulling the moves on Slim here so I dropped a chandelier on his head._

"The seasoning on the ribs was… eh… great. Sweet with a bit of kick." the speedster continued cautiously.

"Yes?!"

Kid Flash was pinned against the wall now, looking set to phase through it in an instant's notice.

"And you can really taste the smoke on 'em. Nutty-like. Pecan wood I'm guessing?"

"Actually, we use two parts oak and one part hickory, but yes?!"

Darrell was now vigorously rocking their table back and forth via pelvic thrust, the watercolor on the wall swinging in unison with him. She'd never seen anyone get so… animated… over barbeque. Pondering back to the pin on his breast pocket, she wondered what he was like when he was angry. It certainly couldn't be worse than when he was aroused, could it? She banished the stray thought: best they didn't find out.

"And the fat content was, uh, on point."

"YES?!"

"The meat just falls away and melts right in your mouth."

"YES?!"

A vein bulged along his temple, and she was almost certain he'd detonate any moment now. She shut her eyes apprehensively, beseeching every deity and cosmic being she'd ever heard of. Hell, she even threw a bone Trigon's way. With any luck, one of them would take pity and shield her from the climax.

"Overall, a, uh… sublime showing from Dyson's tonight."

God help her, here it comes.

"I'm glad to hear you enjoyed the food, sir. Here at Dyson's, we strive to create a remarkable barbeque experience by serving products prepared with high quality ingredients through time-honored traditions."

Was she dead? She allowed herself to creak one eye open, and then the other. No Hellfire. No cherubs. Just dim lighting and the scent of smoked game. Darrell was standing upright, completely composed, as if the episode had never occurred. She peeked to Kid Flash, who appeared to be just as bewildered as her at the complete 180 the situation had taken.

"And the mademoiselle?"

Darrell was now turned towards her, a single eyebrow raised in expectation.

"What he said."

She briskly excused herself from the table, half-walking-half-sprinting to the restroom before he got the chance to pull… whatever _that_ was… on her. Once there, she could hide out for a few minutes before rendezvousing with Kid Flash back at the entrance. She had just made it to the alcove where the reception desk sat when she ran straight into a grizzled man.

He was completely unfazed, as if he had anticipated the impact. Backing away to apologize, she instead found herself cursing under her breath—she was better off with the sexually frustrated waiter. The man's appearance was unassuming enough: worn running shoes, dingy sweatpants, moss green hoodie (full of holes), and a burgundy beanie. Paired with this was unkempt hair, with bangs hanging loose from under the hat, and a shaggy beard, which was caked with dirt. To most, he was nothing but a lowly pauper. But if one took the time to look past his bruised eye sockets, they would find not the resigned eyes of a vagrant but those of a trained killer.

 _He was completely unfazed, as if he had anticipated the impact_ —how could that be possible? The answer inevitably crept into her thoughts: he had been waiting there, watching her, the entire time. She shivered at the idea before mentally reprimanding herself. He wanted to see her squirm. That was the sole reason he stood out in the open like that. The very same reason she'd wake up to find him peering at her sleeping figure from the balcony opposite her apartment. The reason she'd see his face weaving through passing crowds, shamelessly stalking her during her downtown outings. The reason that every time she entered an automobile, there always seemed to be a busted black coupe tailing her from exactly three car lengths away. He was her shade, assigned to her to serve as a reminder: that Keystone City was her cage. If he could force a reaction out of her, all the better—no doubt it made the work more entertaining for him.

"I still have an hour and a half." Jinx calmly reminded him.

No response. Typical.

"The silent treatment? A bit cliché, don't you think?"

Still nothing. She frowned. If this two-bit hatchet man thought a staring contest would shake her, he'd have another thing coming. Intimidation was her reputation. One well-placed glare could make most super powered teens damn near spontaneously combust—certainly she could scare off one of Antoine's thugs. She was just about to give him the Jinx Special when she heard it:

"Sonuva bitch! Sauce?! You want sauce?!"

She grimaced at the sound of Darrell.

"Please don't be from my table." she mentally implored.

"Why are you getting so upset?" echoed the familiar voice of Kid Flash.

Should she have even been surprised? She tore her eyes from the man in the beanie towards the direction of the commotion. Kid Flash and the waiter were currently hunched over the brisket Jinx had donated to the former. The latter's face was red, his teeth bared and eyes aflame. What could have triggered this?

"I'm going to go this way now."

The only response she received was the same blank expression.

"Terrifying to the last." she mused, taking note of the candlelit chandelier hanging above them.

She paced halfway to the source of the bedlam before pausing. If he wanted fluster, she'd be more than happy to oblige. Her eyes glowed pink, noiselessly causing one of the candles from the chandelier to drip. Let him maintain that taciturn demeanor when he was doused in molten wax. Observing from her peripheral vision, she watched the man in the beanie effortlessly sidestep the scalding goop as if by premonition. A wry smile overtook his face.

"Shit," she thought, "Not a two-bit hatchet man after all."

She promptly returned to her seat, where the banter continued in spite of her added presence. Taking one last look towards the entrance, she caught a glimpse of the man's figure leaving the restaurant. Good riddance. At ease, she turned her attention back to the argument at hand.

"25 years I've busted ass in the barbeque game! And now some smug fuck comes in here popping all this good shit about sauce when he knows damn well the food doesn't need it. Sauce?! Fucking sauce?!"

"What's going on here?" she interjected.

"All I said is that I'd like to try to brisket with some sauce." Kid Flash asserted.

"Don't give me that shit. You think you're all high and mighty because you have a five-minute mile time."

Yikes. She could practically hear the boy wincing from the verbal sucker punch.

"… five minutes?"

"And you think that entitles you to waltzing in here and shitting all over the little man? Well I have news for you, you costumed prick. Fuck your sauce! Fuck what it represents!" Darrell declared, yanking away at the tablecloth in a rampage.

To his bewilderment, the dishes defiantly remained in place.

"25 years in barbeque but no understanding of basic physics." Jinx mentally quipped.

She glanced back at Kid Flash, who was still in a state of quandary as to what was going on. Alas, having lived in Keystone City all his life, he didn't grasp the idiosyncrasies of localized barbeque etiquette. Not that she was particularly in touch herself. She just happened to remember Mammoth lecturing her and Gizmo of the dangers of asking for sauce in a Texas smokehouse—something about it insinuating the meat was bad—upon returning from a convention in Lockhart. Much of his time with the H.I.V.E. Five was spent traveling to far-flung food expos—all expenses paid for legally at that. Not that she complained. He always brought home souvenirs. And he became one Hell of a chef.

She nudged the speedster in the arm.

"He thinks you're badmouthing the food. Best just take it back."

The speedster gawked at her incredulously before sighing in resignation.

"Alright. Forget I said anything. Sorry to offend."

The irate server perked up, broken from the trance of the dishes and the perplexing concept of inertia.

"Man, fuck all that. You've gone and made a damn scene and you think that's gonna fly?"

Jinx could feel her hair starting to droop out of irritation: this guy was even more absurd when he was angry than when he was horny. If Kid Flash hadn't always insisted on a diplomacy-first policy, she'd have throttled the man for his gall.

"I made a scene?!"

"Look: fuck you. Fuck wherever the fuck you came in from. Fuck those shoes. Fuck that goofy-ass spandex—"

"I get a lot of compliments on this—"

"—Fuck those little lightning bolts on the side of your head. Fuck that cheap-ass cologne you're wearing. Fuck that baby carrot hair—"

"I wouldn't really call it that shade—"

"—Fuck your dopey-ass eyes. Fuck your apology. Fuck the Flash. Fuck Man-Bat—"

"He's not even a—"

"—Fuck the Justice League. This is Dyson's: where the food is great and the service is better. Now pay your tab and get the fuck out. And if I ever see you again, I'm smacking the shit out of you."

Kid Flash waited a few seconds to ensure the fiery tirade was over. Just as he rose a finger to respond Darrell exploded again.

"Y'know what? Fuck that! I'll give you your beating here!"

"You can't be serious."

"You bet your scrawny little ass I am. You've gone and given me a blood chub."

Blood chub? Jinx felt her gaze instinctively trailing down the waiter's body to—what the Hell is that?! She clamped her violated eyes shut as she tore her head away from him in favor of the watercolor on the wall.

"He's serious." she muttered.

"Now I'm obliged to kick your ass! Get ready for a taste of Keystone City's finest!" he exclaimed as he wound up a balled fist.

"What the fuck is going on out here?!"

Jinx opened her eyes to see an immaculately-dressed dark-skinned man—the general manager, if she had to guess—push his way through the curious crowd that had formed around their table. Darrell's cheeks reddened, like a child caught doing something wrong.

"Fighting with the customers again, Daryl?"

The man spoke in a nonchalant manner, as if he was accustomed to this kind of behavior.

"But boss!" the waiter stammered as he jabbed an accusatory finger towards Kid Flash, "This uppity little shit came in here asking for sauce."

The expensively-dressed man gave an incredulous look.

"Then give him some sauce, Daryl."

"But—"

"For fuck's sake: this isn't Texas. Give the boy some sauce."

The crowd began to disperse, disappointed at the lost prospect of witnessing Kid Flash in action. Jinx allowed herself a sigh of relief—a return to normalcy at last. Daryl glared at the speedster, who in turn offered an apologetic smile. Having noticed this, the dark-skinned man chided once more, "Daryl. You plan on digging yourself even deeper?"

"No boss." The waiter surrendered through gritted teeth as he tottered back to the kitchen.

The general manager turned back towards them.

"My apologies for Daryl's behavior. He's passionate to a fault."

"No harm done." Kid Flash assured.

"I appreciate your modesty, sir, but I can hardly believe that. Please, allow us to comp tonight's meal."

"I don't really think that's nece—"

"Nonsense," the man interrupted as he began to clear their empty plates, "It's the least we can do after all the hard work you kids put in."

Sensing the trouble still lingering in Kid Flash's eyes, he leaned in to suggest, "If you want to make it up to me, you'll come back some time and buy some appetizers."

"Will do."

And with a bow of the head he was gone. Jinx and Kid Flash seated themselves once more, both staring intently at the brisket that started it all. How a token of generosity could spawn that kind of racket was beyond her. Maybe she was better off just eating it.

"What was wrong with it?"

"It looked a little dry."

"That line didn't work out last time either," she snickered.

"Never hurts to ask."

"That seemed like a boo-boo to me."

He shrugged.

" _That_ was an anomaly."

"Oh? And the bit with him forcing himself on you was conventional?"

"I may have given him too much benefit of the doubt."

"I guess the thought of living wise never crossed your mind."

"Or maybe it's just that I feel invincible around you." he said with a wink.

She couldn't quite tell if that was incredibly smooth or unbearably cheesy. Her lips must have been inclined towards the former, as they immediately cracked into a dopey grin.

"Dammit," her brain scolded, "What are you? A schoolgirl?"

It certainly must have appeared that way, with how Kid Flash was clearly savoring her expression. Dammit. The last thing she needed was for him to walk away from the table with that mental image. Or the knowledge that he was capable of extracting it from her. She had to reclaim her dignity, and fast.

"Or maybe you're just an idiot."

"I can see that," he yielded, before leaning in to whisper, "But I think I like my theory better."

Before she could respond, she was cut off by Daryl hollering in the distance:

"Who the Hell are you guys?! You here for sauce too?!"

Then came a sharp yelp, followed by Daryl scuttling into the room and diving over an occupied table, sending the baffled patrons' entrées plummeting to the floor, with him in tow. Jinx deflated in her seat. What now?

"Does something have to go wrong every time we go out?" she grumbled.

"That's pretty rich, coming from you." a shrill voice retorted.

She perked up immediately.

"No…" her voice trailed.

Her brain hastily raced through the implications of what she just heard. That voice! There was no way she could be hearing that bratty tone now—not after what happened in Paris. She swung around in her seat to see him hovering there, the other four standing tall behind him, arms crossed and smirking triumphantly at her shock.

"What's wrong, scud muffin?" Gizmo asked, "Didn't you miss us?"


	4. Chapter 4

**It's been quite some time, no? My apologies for the ludicrous amount of time between the last update and this one. As it was, I was undergoing some adjustments in my life (for the better) and found it exceedingly difficult to pump this chapter out. As you shall soon discover, it's quite a lengthy one. I cannot promise that I will be more timely in updating—only for the reason that I do not wish to make a promise that I will more than likely default on. That being said, I have no intentions of abandoning this story.**

 **Wall of text aside, I hope you enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.**

Dracul was no stranger to the shabby and the squalid. By virtue of his lowly background, he was able to welcome the company of destitution with all the tender warmness of an old family friend—albeit a resented one. In juxtaposition to this, concepts such as luxury and abundance were foreign to him—overwhelmingly so. It took a lengthy transition period spanning several years, consisting of the steady consumption of the printed word regarding every topic imaginable, for him to complete his metamorphosis from half-sentient brute to courtly man.

Not that Dracul admitted such things to anyone. Indeed, during his tenure with the H.I.V.E. Academy he had cultivated for himself the persona of the gentleman giant. Of course, his true nature would resurface on occasion, often in the form of a choleric outburst, earning him an infamous reputation amongst students and fellow faculty members. Other times, it would manifest as a crude comprehension of etiquette, best showcased at the staff luncheons the Headmistress insisted everyone attend— "for morale's sake", she asserted. Upon arriving, he'd find himself flabbergasted at the vast arrangement of cutlery set before him. In such instances, he cited his mask as the basis for his fasting.

As it was, Dracul felt quite at home, sitting silently in darkness, at that dilapidated hovel he had claimed as a safe house—one of many stationed throughout Keystone City. Yet, for all the solidarity he maintained with his impoverished surroundings, he found himself quivering with anxiety. It was not due to the way the battered furniture creaked in protest against his large frame. Nor did it result from manner in which the plaster peeled in places, revealing a growth of mildew underneath. Nor even did it stem from the pervading musk of whiskey and bodily secretions. No, his distress was the product of something else entirely.

Oh, how the apprehension hounded him! With a trembling hand he removed his wide-brimmed hat, plopping it to the side, the blackened leather producing a dull thud against the tiled floor. Next to go was his mask. Seizing at the blanched porcelain, he wrenched it free, the coarse fabric holding it in place coming untucked and scraping along his neck and face. It too was set aside as Dracul ran a gloved hand against his stinging cheeks. He retrieved a cigarette from his coat pocket, clenching it between his teeth. Upon lighting it, he imagined all his inhibitions melting away, replaced by a flood of mellow vapors.

"Forgive me, dear friend. You have been exceedingly courteous in inviting me into your home. I understand that this habit of mine is not to your liking."

He dangled the cigarette between his fingers, inspecting it with a hardened scrutiny. The illusion of warmth receded, the only semblance of heat remaining firmly fixed within the faint glow at his fidgeting fingertips. In its stead flowed foreboding, weighing down heavily upon him, smothering what meagre buoyancy he had managed to muster.

"Frankly, it is not much to my palate either."

This was indeed true. Smoking, for him, was a farce. Any tranquility derived from the activity was purely psychological: his senses would conform to the delusion of the vapors calming his nerves. In actuality, the fumes had little effect on him. His body was physiologically incapable of processing them. This was the case for most substances—be they mild stimulants such as caffeine or toxic poisons such as cyanide.

"Even so, I find myself unable to relinquish it, for the sole reason that it was denied to me in my youth."

He allowed himself another whiff from the cigarette, this time hollow of all feeling, as the vapors wandered aimlessly through his airways.

"It is a silly sentiment, I know," he chuckled, "But sometimes, one cannot help but grow attached to the most frivolous of things."

His voice trailed as he thought of her face, so serene, resting against his bicep, tufts of pink hair overhanging drowsy eyes. The poor thing, in her lethargic state, swatted away at the rogue bangs, to no avail. He smiled behind his mask, caressing a naked hand along her forehead, dragging the unruly hair back. How soft her pale skin felt against his calloused hands. How small she appeared within his rocking arms. How delicate she seemed!

Little fingers wrapped around his pinkie, tugging at it insistently. As he shook his head in query, she summoned a faint yawn—that was enough for him to understand. He reached for the shelf above them, pulling down the toy unicorn he had stitched for her. Admittedly, he was poor with needle and thread: the beady-eyed monstrosity, patched together from the recycled pieces of other stuffed animals, was more akin to the chimera of ancient Greek mythology. She cooed gently as he delivered it into expectant arms. He watched in awe as the tot's consciousness left her, traveling wherever infantile minds do in times of respite.

He extended his arm again to stroke her rosy cheeks. Before he got the chance, her visage faded, leaving only a twitching hand, a cigarette wedged between his fingers. He clutched at his wrist, in some feeble attempt to hold it steady. It was a misguided sentiment, for the instant he undertook the swift motion the cigarette slipped from his gloved fingers, tumbling to the floor—a rather apt metaphor for Dracul's existence. He observed the fallen empty comfort for some time, ruminating on this thought, before speaking again.

"So long as it does not interfere in your work, what could be the harm?"

He immediately set to cackling. What a notion! Had that been the case, he'd not have spent his night quivering in anxiety for Keystone City. _Him_ being tormented by the fate of some hamlet in the dirt! A fate he had very much a hand in orchestrating, at that. Bah! How far he'd fallen. His laughter fell to a hush, silence draping over the hovel in an almost asphyxiating manner. He reclined his head backwards, staring disinterestedly at the ceiling, droplets of moisture visible upon the cracks.

"I never did tell you what I do for a living, did I? I used to be a schoolteacher, if you could believe it."

Following a short-lived career with the Brotherhood of Evil, Dracul found himself freelancing, just as he had before. Why he decided to abandon the Brotherhood was never readily apparent to him. Perhaps it lay within the haughty manner in which his colleagues conducted themselves—something he had a natural tendency to detest. Or perhaps there was a lack of appeal in ascending a megalomaniac such as the Brain to the mantle of universal dictator. Whatever his reason, the Brotherhood was not so keen on his departure. Opportunistic cutthroats began to descend upon the mainland like a plague of locusts—all of them bent on collecting his head—forcing him to take refuge on the island of Corsica, off the coast of Italy.

"Indeed, it was a strange turn of events. One day I'm running odd jobs and the next sees me approached by one of the most impeccably-dressed ruffians to ever walk the earth, who briefly informs me that his employer desires to make my acquaintance."

This employer, Dracul had recognized her name—he recalled reading of her involvement in a corporate scandal some two years ago. She was the only child of one of the foremost real estate tycoons in the States. Her father, however, was hesitant to entrust his empire within the hands of a woman, and so wedded her off to one of his advisors. When he finally passed, he designated all his holdings to his new son-in-law. Within two weeks the girl was widowed. The outraged media speculation was expressed all the louder when, upon her assumption of the position of Central Executive Officer, she abruptly sold the company, disappearing from public view.

Now she had cropped up once more, in Corsica of all places, requesting Dracul's presence at her seaside villa. He wasn't sure what to make of the woman. If his suspicions were correct, she was cooperating with the Brotherhood to secure his capture. If not, she was an independent player with a powerful spy network at her disposal, and was just as liable to turn him over. In either scenario, his position was compromised. He pondered his next course of action… flee knowing he would inevitably be tracked down again… or meet with this woman.

"Intuition, stupidity—call it what you will. I chose to humor this 'employer'."

Upon arriving, he was greeted by a freckled figure, dressed to the nines, her auburn hair pulled back in a bun and thick rimmed glasses veiling her steely eyes. Suffice to say, he was shocked: this woman hardly looked the part of an underworld contractor, nor that of an information broker—she was too clean. That said, there was an unmistakable air of shrewdness about her. She visually dissected him with those piercing eyes, her rigid conviction being betrayed—for but a brief moment—as she realized that even with her obnoxiously tall heels, she stood only to his chest. She beckoned him to her office, where she demanded he sit for the duration of their meeting. On her desk lay an assortment of clutter: empty mugs, the local newspaper, a picture frame of her father, and… strangely enough… a bee in a jar.

"That's quite a lovely specimen you have there." Dracul offered as he attempted to accustom himself to the compact plush seat.

"Don't you think?"

She took the jar into her hands, shifting it about gingerly in her polished fingernails.

"I absolutely adore the little creatures." she mused, eyes mesmerized by the buzzing insect, her spectacles practically pressed against the glass.

There was a measure of whimsy in her eyes—the kind oft-observed in mothers captivated by a newborn. The thing, for its part, remained ignorant of her peering, hovering about stupidly to investigate the traces of fog imprinted upon the walls from her hushed breath.

"They are amongst nature's most noble," Dracul affirmed, "Bringing joy to all through honey and fresh florets."

"A worthy sentiment, Mr. Dracul, but beyond that they are excellent workers."

She reclined back in her seat, holding the container eye level.

"They are single-minded in their purpose and tirelessly efficient in executing it. They disregard all individual concerns in favor of safeguarding the future of the hive."

She cast a disapproving glance at the frame picturing her father.

"I often times told father that we ought to replace our employees with bees. Far more loyal than anyone on his payroll at the time. And far more expedient."

She snorted as she shook her head.

"But what acumen could I, a mere woman, possess? 'The only business a woman should run is the household.' Ha! I'll show him!" she declared.

She set the jar back upon the cluttered desk, tapping at the lid, much to the striped insect's alarm.

"And my model shall be the hive."

"I suppose that is where I enter." he interjected.

"As sharp as the tales say, Mr. Dracul. You'll make an excellent professor."

He had howled at the prospect at the time.

"Professor?! What makes you think I am fit to teach in a school?"

"Think of it more as a cultivating grounds." she offered as rejoinder, her expression solemn.

He gave an incredulous look. Certainly she could not be serious?

"Cultivation for what exactly?" he demanded in curt tone.

She did not answer, instead opting to rise from her seat and pace about the cramped office, heels clicking against the wooden floor with every step.

"There's no question that the criminal market grows more saturated with each passing day, due in part to the accelerated development of extraordinary individuals such as yourself. Yet the vast majority will be relegated to petty burglary and the like. Few will achieve the caliber of a professional villain such as yourself or, say, a Madame Rouge."

"And so you intend to teach them how."

"Precisely the idea!" she exclaimed as she turned back to the desk, slapping her hands against the polished wood.

"And you actually believe these individuals will be willing to pay you for your countenance?" Dracul asked skeptically.

"Exactly why we shall start at a young age," she retorted, "Children displaying talents deemed viable for professional villainy shall be reared through a rigorous curriculum catered specifically towards that purpose."

"And where do you suppose the return in that is?" he scolded, "They're children."

"Very simple, Mr. Dracul." she enunciated with clear annoyance, "Following successful completion of the program, graduates shall serve a term in which they shall pay back into the institution through mercenary work."

"They're children." he reiterated.

"It's a mutually beneficial settlement, I assure you. The operatives will receive a cut of the profit, as well as the opportunity to network with other potential clients and high-profile villains."

She stared at him, her eyebrows raised in expectation. He leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin against a balled hand. It was an interesting enough concept that she was proposing to him, yet he did not see any place for himself in it. He had never even stepped foot in an educational facility before—what aptitude could he possibly have for teaching?

"It seems to me that you already have most of the pieces in place. Certainly there are many interested in joining such a venture. Why seek me out?"

Her lips pursed, betraying the stone-faced demeanor she had worked so hard to foster. He could almost see the machinations of her mind whirring, as she debated how much she intended to disclose to him. Her nose twitched noticeably and she let out more sighs than one cared to count, rising from her seat to pace once again. She grabbed a ballpoint pen from her desk, gnawing lightly at one end as she contemplated. It crossed Dracul's mind to call attention to this uncouth conduct, but he resigned to silence. After several minutes of this, her shoulders deflated slightly, and she turned back towards him, with a final sigh in tow.

"In truth, Mr. Dracul, I'm new to this field—poorly-established." she managed to coax out, "Faculty candidates observe me with a wary skepticism while prospective clients scoff at the venture."

Her face contorted as if the confession was bitter as baking chocolate.

"But, if I were to have a former member of the illustrious Brotherhood of Evil…" she trailed off, eyes lighting up as she looked to him.

"My time with the Brotherhood was inconsequential."

"Your reputation begs to differ, 'Butcher of Brest'." she responded with a wry smile.

He scowled at the mention of the moniker. Out of all the stupid nicknames he had been given over the years, it was that one he resented most. And out of all the stupid nicknames he had been given over the years, it was that one which stuck. Butcher—what an ugly comparison!

"Color me impressed, Mr. Dracul. Not just anyone could slaughter an entire contingent of—"

"You need not recall the details," Dracul hastily interrupted, "I was there."

She smirked at his obvious discomfort but mercifully did not egg him on.

"Well, Mr. Dracul?" she inquired, lurching back into her chair to indicate that she had finished her saying her piece.

Before he even got a chance to think out a response, she retracted her silence, leaning back forward to add in, "I suppose now would be a good time to mention that I've notified the Brotherhood of our location."

"You're bluffing."

"To the contrary."

She gestured to the window behind her. Dracul rushed to the curtain shades, raising them and transforming the cold slate interior of the room into a warm marigold hue. Surely enough, as he scanned the courtyard, he spotted the figure of a muscled man in SS uniform waiting impatiently outside the villa gates. Dracul cursed under his breath—it was one of Immortus' envoys. He whipped his head back to the woman, eyes aflame behind the porcelain mask.

"You invited them here?!"

She shrugged.

"It was a necessary precaution."

"Are you under delusion, woman?! They'll kill us both!"

She did not appear to be listening.

"Work for me and I'll make sure the Brotherhood never bothers you again."

He craned his head back to the window as he heard the creaking of the gates: they were letting the bastard in. It would only be a matter of time before escape ceased to be a viable option. In his agitated state, he nearly jumped as he turned back to find the woman standing in front of him, hand held out in anticipation.

"Do we have a deal, Mr. Dracul?"

The audacity of this woman! He felt his hands inching towards her, convulsing erratically, at the ready to strangle her. She merely rose a dismissive eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Let us see how glib you are when I wring your neck." Dracul thought, smiling maliciously at the thought.

He froze. He could hear the sounds of footsteps: they were currently walking up the stairs. Damn it all! Cornered like a rat! He could feel himself reverting back to the primitive state he worked so hard to suppress—no longer gentleman giant but rather brutish barbarian. Panic coursed through his nerves like electricity and indiscriminate violence became more and more appealing. The last time he walked this close to the edge, he became the Butcher of Brest.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." the woman chimed, eyes still trained on him.

As the gilded knob began to twist, Dracul's thoughts raced furiously. He could just kill them all. Damn the torpedoes and create a big mess as he did in Belarus. Painting that large of a target on his back would make remaining in Corsica nigh impossible, but at the very least he'd get to watch the smug bitch cough up her entrails. Yes, he liked that idea. On the other hand, he could play the long game: go along with what she said; let her think she had him under thumb. As much as his pride couldn't stomach the thought of swelling this woman's ego, an entire school of superpowered individuals would prove an invaluable asset—especially considering that he no longer had the Brotherhood's resources at his back. His agenda would no longer be on hold.

He made up his mind. Just as the door was flying open, his hand shot to hers in a fluid motion, locking in the ill-advised covenant. The woman smiled before turning to the new guest. Immortus' envoy had burst into the room in a grand display, chest puffed up obnoxiously so as to jangle the countless medals hanging from his uniform. He smirked smugly as he flaunted an officer's sword at Dracul.

"Well, well," he spat, "Long way from home, aren't we, Drac?"

"I was just out to buy some milk." Dracul retorted coolly.

"And here we were worried that you decided to desert."

The envoy turned to the woman, sword still pointed at Dracul, his smile gone.

"I was under the impression that I'd be collecting him in chains."

She did not even return his gaze.

"Are you listening? This was not what we agreed."

She remained silent, drawing the man's ire further. It seemed Dracul was not the only one frustrated by her antics. The envoy moved the sword away from Dracul, leveling it at her throat.

"When someone speaks to you, it is common practice to respond." he enunciated through gritted teeth.

She seemed unimpressed by the threatening display, her steely eyes glowering at the envoy without a trace of amusement.

"Look at you, harping about courtesy as you brandish a weapon at your host." she finally said sharply, snapping her fingers.

The envoy gnashed his teeth at her.

"You harlot! You dare speak to a representative of the Brotherhood of Evil in such a manner?! I'll have your head you who—"

He was cut off as his own head was jolted back by a rugged yet immaculately-dressed man—the very same one who had contacted Dracul in the first place—who had just entered the room. The envoy gawked stupidly at the woman, then at Dracul. The henchman looked to the woman, eliciting a stern nod from her. And then in one fluid motion, he pressed the barrel of a handgun against the envoy's chin and pulled the trigger.

So much for not making a mess. Dracul turned back to the woman, who was currently beckoning a young maid into the office, who, all things considered, appeared unfazed by the fact that she was sweeping up fractured bits of skull and scattered chunks of cerebrum. All in a day's work, he supposed.

"What comes next?" he queried.

The woman strolled back to her desk, gingerly picking up the picture frame of her father.

"I have already acquired a functioning facility for our purposes," she explained as she gently caressed the photo, "All we need to do now is populate it."

"And then class will be in session?"

"Indeed, Mr. Dracul," she affirmed, her emotionally devoid face being overtaken by a bloodthirsty smile, "And when the initial wave of graduates make their debut, I shall be their first client."

And with that, she dropped the frame to the ground, hurling shards of glass across the floor.

"Sally, clean that up for me, will you?"

Dracul shook his head at the sudden depravity of the woman and sauntered over to the window overlooking the villa courtyard, half-paranoid that he'd find more Brotherhood representatives. When he failed to do so, he allowed himself a deep breath of relief. Strangely enough, the air smelled unlike the coastal sea spray he had grown accustomed to during his time on Corsica but rather like… smoke.

Dracul found himself pulled back into the present day, staring blankly not at a cloister of hedges and fountains but at a termite-infested wall. He lowered his gaze to his feet. In his negligence, he did not stamp out the cigarette he had dropped earlier. As he extinguished it, he produced an ornate pocket watch from his overcoat. Its silver encasing, engraved with the design of a barbed wreath of roses, showed little sign of smudge or tarnish—a testament to a tortured soul's obsessive polishing. Opening it, he frowned: he had spaced out for approximately 15 minutes. Snapping it shut, he lurched back against the chair.

"The long and short of it, my friend…" he broke the silence, "…is that this 'employer' was developing an innovative little educational outfit and thought me a viable faculty candidate. Being a charitable soul, I obliged."

He snorted at the last bit.

"Naturally, I didn't much care for it at first. I was out of my element, and the subjects I was teaching were of little interest to me."

As a matter of fact, when the H.I.V.E. Academy for Extraordinary Young People was founded, the headmistress had relegated Dracul to the role of trophy faculty, with him teaching but a single course: _Massacre at Brest: Facts v. Myths_. The class was little more than a semester's worth of probing by students regarding the incident, much to his chagrin. Their understanding of the event was wholly distorted with hyperbolic fabrication of his combat prowess: exaggerated stories of how the Butcher of Brest stood against insurmountable odds, fueled only by raw bloodlust, slaying a thousand genetically-enhanced soldiers and rutting with their wives and daughters on the same night—all because he had taken offense to the way the Sun shined that day. The truth was far less exciting.

Brest was part of the Brain's Cold War campaign. At the time, the Brotherhood worked tirelessly to keep the States and the Soviet Union at each other's throats. It was the Brain's conviction that this tension detracted notoriety from the organization's activities, with the added benefit of accelerating the development of destructive new technologies amongst the belligerent nations—all the better for the Brotherhood to exploit. Thus, when it came his attention that a detachment of American diplomats was secretly holding discussions of détente with the Soviets at Brest Fortress, he dispatched Dracul to Belarus. Dracul couldn't help but be amused by the choice of venue. It seemed all too appropriate that the Bolsheviks would negotiate with the Americans in the same city they did with the Kaiser decades before.

It was meant to be a simple assignment: kill the American diplomats, making it to look that the U.S.S.R. was the guilty party. What actually occurred was a clumsy mass slaughter of nearly all the fortress' inhabitants after he was detected. Why was he caught? All because of a sneeze: the itsiest bitsiest little sneeze that one would think possible to be uttered by the frailest of men—let alone someone of Dracul's stature. Nobody save him knew of that detail, thankfully, but word of the exploit soon spread to villainous circles across the globe, quickly blowing out of proportion. People began calling him the Butcher of Brest, both out of fear and admiration, and while people struggled to see the grand scheme behind the massacre, nobody dared question the Brotherhood of Evil's logic. The Brain certainly did little to dispel the rumors. Thus, an entire career's worth of high-profile assassinations and expertly-executed heists were forgotten: a botched hit became Dracul legacy. All because of a damned sneeze.

"Yet, my friend, having stuck with teaching for a length of time, I came to a miraculous conclusion: I was rather good at it—and what's more: I enjoyed it."

Indeed, there was something strangely gratifying in monitoring the progression of these children, knowing that he, in part, was responsible for it. And he would be lying had he said that he did not relish in the indignation on Madame Rouge's face when she saw him waving in the audience during one of her many seminars at the Academy. The Headmistress had kept her promise: the Brotherhood never bothered Dracul during her tenure. He actually found himself growing rather fond of her. Manipulative witch that she was, she expertly guided the Academy through its early years, converting a fledgling organization into a household name amongst villainous circles—spanning multiple schools. True to her word, during the Academy's meteoric rise to success, one of the foremost real estate firms in the States was hit with a number of tragedies, eventually leading to bankruptcy.

Of course, it helped her case that she was so suggestible to him. Even during the early days of the endeavor, she made a point of consulting him. As she said, her background was in administration, not crime. He found his role conflating with hers, with his hand quickly becoming an invisible specter over the governance of the Academy. Rumors began to spread amongst the rest of the faculty that Dracul was being bred for the Headmistress' role and that they would all be at his mercy should anything happen to her.

"As a matter of fact, I was so adept in teaching that I was authorized to found my own department."

And so, he earned a new title: Dean of the Alter Ego Department—or as the students not-so-affectionately referred to him, "The Man Who Brought Algebra to the H.I.V.E. Academy". The basic premise behind the new department was to provide the students with some facet of a normal education in the hopes of producing well-rounded individuals, skilled in all aspects of life and able to hold a conversation in any topic. Such skills as literacy, mathematics, and the sciences were those which Dracul himself wished to have been taught at a young age. Thus, when he found that some of his colleagues did not share in his enthusiasm, he was more than disgruntled. As he famously responded to a detractor at the time, "God damn it, man! Are we to be known as an assembly line of dolts? When a graduate leaves the Academy, he or she should at the very least know that twice two equals four!"

"Things went well for a time. I witnessed countless students arrive as marginal footnotes and depart as the future greats. It was empowering, you know, making a difference in those children's lives—especially to one such as me, who had no role in determining his own fate."

Dracul's eyes narrowed as a bitter thought entered his mind.

"Alas, we do not conduct ourselves within a vacuum. No, my friend, we all have at least one instance in our lives in which we are unfortunate enough to stumble upon Eris' Apple of Discord."

Dracul's apple came in the form of Brother Blood. Ambitious, cunning, and above all charismatic, Blood quickly carved a name for himself within the Academy, earning the admiration of student and colleague alike. Of course, the man never sat quite well with Dracul. Aside from the choice of attire, with the Brotherhood of Evil's emblem emblazoned on his robes, Blood's charming behavior came across disingenuous—not unlike that of a cult leader. Dracul's suspicions were only further piqued when he saw Blood whispering in the ear of another faculty member, both their eyes flaring crimson.

Things came to a head when the H.I.V.E. Headmistress went missing and an emergency meeting was called amongst senior faculty. Blood seemed particularly cheery that day. It soon became apparent why. As it came time to vote for an interim headmaster, one of the professors—the very same one Dracul witnessed with Blood earlier—nominated the upstart for the position. Dracul had said nothing, having believed his other colleagues would back him against this challenge. To his surprise, he soon discovered that Brother Blood had been more proactive than originally believed, with everyone else vigorously affirming this proposal. As Dracul gazed into their eyes, he observed the same scarlet glow from earlier. He had been outplayed. By a mere pup, no less.

To Blood's credit, he claimed the role humbly. The sentiment was fleeting. Dracul soon found his beloved department deconstructed, with him thrust into a series of undesirable tasks as the Academy's new caretaker. It must have been rather amusing for Blood to see Dracul reduced to a glorified janitor, yet even this did not last. With the old headmistress gone, so too was Dracul's amnesty with the Brotherhood of Evil. The last memory he had of the Academy was of him being unceremoniously dragged away by Immortus' soldiers to the tune of a cheering crowd, eyes alight with a red hue.

"Which brings me to my current predicament."

Dracul sighed, feeling the bodily tremors returning. He had gained reprieve from them for the duration of his aside. That was indeed his hope. Unfortunately, it seemed he had talked himself into a corner, back into the fold with the source of his anxiety. He checked the time again. Not much longer now. His gaze transfixed from the hands of the pocket watch to the picture on the other face: a pale, pink haired girl, confidently smiling with arm upheld, hand aglow.

"I suppose my work nowadays most resembles that of an architect. I am to create a city upon a hill, a shining beacon for all others to aspire to."

His eyes darted from the girl to the time and back to the girl again. Shaded in gloom as he was, his vision remained undeterred. What he would give to be robbed of it! If only to make him ignorant of the apprehension on display. As the minute hand ticked, he slammed his fist against the arm rest, scattering a scurry of alarmed rats that had taken refuge under the chair.

"Yet it appears, my friend, that I have a conflict of interest," his voice quivered, "That is why I am here, you understand."

The minute hand ticked again. Damn it all! This was not what he wanted! At least back in the Brotherhood's base in Paris, he'd have been working with a block of ice. There would be ample time to compose himself. But this? There was only ample time to build one's sense of dread. The minute hand ticked again. He buried his face in his free hand. He wanted to wail and shout and scream. He wanted to thrash and flail against the unease that relentlessly battered him. He wanted to wrest his heart from his chest—if only to stop the pounding.

"But, my friend…"

He paused. The minute hand ticked again. And then came catharsis.

"I lack the strength to do so! A score of lifetimes would not have been sufficient to prepare me for the impending confrontation. Nearly a year it's been since I've last seen her—having parted under non-amicable terms—and now there is talk of having reformed! The questions hound at me: Will she look as I remember? Sound as she did? Will I recognize her as the little girl I abandoned all that time ago? And what of her reaction to me? Does she even wish to see me? Or will she detest me and hate me and demand that I remove myself from her life the moment I make my presence known?"

He sighed deeply.

"Nearly a year I've endured, longing to hold this conversation—rehearsing my lines over and over countless times—all in some vain hope of salvaging the bond that I so callously destroyed all that time ago. Yet now that I am finally here, I feel as if we are doomed to meet and depart as strangers. And, my friend, that terrifies me."

His head drooped low out of shame. How could they meet as anything other than strangers? The minute hand ticked again. Dracul closed the watch, gingerly placing it in his coat pocket. He grabbed the beaked mask from his side, fumbling about with it until it was fastened and reasonably comfortable. Rising from the seat, he picked up his hat from the tiled floor, fanning it to remove any dust and would-be inhabitants, before resting it on his head. He drifted across the dank room and slid open the door to the fire escape. He paused.

"Thank you, my friend. I know I have a tendency to ramble on."

He turned to address the desiccated corpse laid in the seat across from his. An expression of terror was still distinguishable on its face, mutilated and decayed as it was. From his understanding, the body had belonged to a serial child molester, who descended upon the streets at night to lure children into alleyways with promises of candy. Contrary to what was the case with his victims, nobody seemed to notice or particularly care when he spontaneously disappeared a few months ago. As far as they were concerned, he could rot away in Hell for all eternity. Dracul was a little more lenient when it came to second chances. After all, what constituted the scum of the Earth in life became a rather charming conversational partner in death.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello again, folks. This is it: the conflict you've been waiting to be resolved ever since I made the ill-advised decision to include a cliffhanger in the story several months ago. Admittedly, this was supposed to be part of the last chapter, but I have a tendency (as I am sure you all have noticed) to be needlessly wordy. Thus, we end up with a chapter that is nothing but exposition about an original character. That being said, I am happy to have had the opportunity to integrate Dracul into the world in the last chapter, and overall, I am satisfied with this one too. I can only hope that the rest of you feel the same.**

 **Rambling aside, enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Teen Titans or other affiliated materials.**

Family reunions—they always were a somewhat awkward affair, weren't they? First enters the distant cousins, whom you haven't had contact with in years, spontaneously appearing at your doorstep, bearing gaudy gifts, ornately wrapped with an overbearing bow, receipt still attached as a reminder of how much wealthier they are than you. Along with them comes your senile grandmother, who grasps your hand and pecks at your cheek, chattering incessantly about how much you've grown. Yet, a quick scan of her eyes reveals that she hasn't the slightest notion of who any of you are or where she even is. Then comes your elder sister, a staunch liberal, who quickly finds herself at odds with the cousins in a heated debate over tax reform and welfare, both sides at each other's throats and, for whatever reason, under the delusion that taking offense to the other side's argument automatically makes it incorrect. Just as the entire function threatens to spiral into chaos, the sleazy uncle arrives, back from his day job at the local grocery store—all earnings from which have been channeled towards booze and funding his fifth trip to Vegas that month—and recounts his glory days as the star pitcher of his high school baseball team, much to everyone's indignation.

Jinx, luckily, had no actual family to simulate such a situation. But encountering the H.I.V.E. Five at Dyson's after having abandoned them as icicles back in Paris was a close second. She looked to Kid Flash, but he too seemed astonished at the sudden turn of events. The witty grin that usually occupied his face was replaced with a troubled frown. She could almost read his thoughts: _Wha…? How did these clowns get out? Did the cooling system fail? Does Robin know about this? Who else escaped? This is going to be a lot of paperwork…_

Her gaze returned to Gizmo, prompting the floating boy's eyebrows to raise in anticipation, no doubt awaiting some reaction to his timely one-liner. The entire restaurant was under a seemingly-impenetrable hush, customers cowering noiselessly under mahogany tables, panicked eyes darting from her to the gang, the gang and back to her. Even Daryl had become mute. She took it upon herself to break the silence.

"What are you guys doing here?" she queried, voice hoarse from shock.

Gizmo's eyes lit up with delight as he glanced back, eliciting smirks from the rest of the villainous posse. No doubt they all relished seeing her in this stupefied state.

"After all this time, that's all you've got to say to us?" the pint-sized genius asked, wincing as his hands shot to his chest, feigning heartbreak.

He drifted backwards as if to faint, prompting Mammoth to prop him up with beefy arms.

"Now look what you've gone and did done," Billy Numerous scolded, "Burst his itty-bitty little heart like a grape in the microwave."

"You know how sensitive he can be." Mammoth pouted.

Jinx rolled her eyes: they were going to ride this performance out as long as they could—she'd go so far as to say that they even rehearsed.

"What did you expect?" she retorted coolly.

"Something a little more creative." Gizmo sneered as he awoke from his 'stupor'.

"I've got something creative in mind, alright." she thought, glaring daggers at him.

"Why so prickly, Jinx?" he inquired innocently, eyes locking onto her like heat-seeking missiles, "You're acting like we're a bunch of crud-munching backstabbers."

She could feel her lips drawing back into a scowl as she watched Gizmo meander prolongedly through the air—no doubt preparing to launch a lengthy tirade against her.

"You're so angsty, y'know that? Always having some reason to be angry with the world—always whining about how bad you've got it. 'Madame Rouge doesn't notice me! Nobody listens to me! I dated a glorified Macintosh! I have daddy issues! The teammates I betrayed are interrupting my date! I'm bad luck! Boohoo! Poor me! _Poor me_!'"

He twisted balled fists around his eyes in an imitated sob, voice squeaking even more than his usual delivery.

"And how do you deal with it? In the most textbook, cliché way possible, of course! Run off with some pit-sniffer you just met so you can make kissy faces at each other all day."

Billy doubled and the two clones puckered their lips at each other, apparently assuming a visual aid was necessary.

"Bad form, boss." Mammoth added in as Kyd Wykkyd shook his head in disapproval.

"I take offense to that!" Kid Flash interjected.

"You and me both, pal." See-More grumbled as he cast a disgusted glance at the Billies.

"And to top it all off, you decide to make your hormonal imbalance our problem and leave us for dead in a block of ice." Gizmo continued to chew her out.

"I've got freezer burn in places I didn't even know existed." See-More pitched in to a wave of shudders and affirmations.

Jinx's eyes darted furiously from each member of the group, her teeth clenched and bared for all of them to see, noticeably unnerving a few of them. Finally, her orbits trained on Gizmo, whose spirits were visibly lifted at the sight of her aggravation. When she got her hands on him, she'd make sure to extract the highest-pitched squeal known to mankind from his gullet.

"You done?" she hissed.

He stroked at his nonexistent beard in quiet contemplation, before finally replying, "Yeah."

"You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

His jovial demeanor deflated, overtaken by exasperation.

"Fine then, stupid. We're here because we've got a score to settle with you. Clear the building!" he commanded in a shrill voice.

In the blink of an eye Kyd Wykkyd vanished from sight. The rest of the group set themselves upon the tables, propelling countless pieces of china and fine glassware to an early demise along the wood floor, much to the fright of the patrons cowering underneath. The Billies multiplied, each one grabbing ahold of a civilian to escort out of the restaurant—though not before engaging in a shakedown first. Women shrieked as clones snarled and tore away at jewelry, while men trembled with apprehension as they found themselves being stripped down to their undergarments. See-More aided him in this task, shooting bursts of concentrated light at the feet of shuffling patrons, invariably speeding the tempo of footsteps as people took notice of the scorch marks he left behind.

Jinx felt her hands pulsing with a radiant pink energy. A year ago, she'd have taken pride in the sight before her—like an artist taking pride in a painting that was coming together. The world had been her canvas and she painted it with chaos and fear. Looking at the display now, however, she felt nothing but revulsion and guilt. How many lives had she ruined over the years? How much trauma did she cause? All for the sake of inflating her own ego. To dispense her own warped perception of justice upon a world that she felt owed her. Gizmo was right: she had been angsty—a bitch even. Yet, she was not content to accept that characterization for herself—least of all from Gizmo. It was time to step in. She cast a determined glance to Kid Flash, who nodded in affirmation. Wordlessly, the couple rose from the table, each taking a respective fighting stance. Who knew? Maybe Antoine would accept this as a "hazard of notable threat".

They were interrupted by a slicing sound from the rafters overhead, followed by a cacophony of clinking metal. Molten wax rained from above as a metal chandelier came crashing down upon one of the tables, crushing it effortlessly and sinking far into the foundation underneath, provoking a fresh deluge of screams from the startled patrons.

"Ah, ah," Gizmo warned as he waved an admonishing finger, "You two wait your turn."

He gestured to the ceiling. Surely enough, Kyd Wykkyd stood at the far end of the rafters, above the crowd of civilians, razor-sharp cape at the ready to cut another chandelier down. Her fists clenched even tighter than before, but she acquiesced, plopping unceremoniously back into her seat. Kid Flash followed suit.

"Don't worry. We won't be long."

Jinx let out a huff of air at this assurance, before taking to scanning the room. Daryl, who had crawled out from his space in the corner, soon found himself at the mercy of Mammoth. In a panic, the waiter shattered one of the nearby plates over the giant's head. The teen didn't even flinch. Instead, he picked at a hanging piece of brisket that had affixed itself to Daryl's apron. Chewing it, he mused:

"Smoke overpowers the meat. Would use pecan wood in place of hickory."

The server raised a closed fist, nostrils flaring and eyes full of protest, before entering a state of quandary, carefully considering the giant's suggestion. He did not get to ponder it long, as Mammoth took ahold of his face and hurled him forward into the procession of people heading to the exit. As the last of the diners had been escorted out, the Five reassembled, Gizmo indicating via snicker that they were ready to proceed. Jinx rose to her feet again, her eyes darting from one member to another, carefully considering which one of the smug teens to take out first.

Kyd Wykkyd was the wildcard of the group, given his penchant for teleportation. Removing him from the fight outright wouldn't be a bad idea. Mammoth was strong and reckless—a dangerous combination in a historic building such as Dyson's. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that he brought the entire warehouse down upon their heads. Kid Flash could easily use his speed to goad Billy Numerous into exceeding his capacity for duplication, incapacitating the latter by taxing his system. As for See-More, he'd likely be holding back: he typically did on the occasions in which she sparred with him. That left Gizmo—the prize as far as she was concerned. She'd leave him for last.

She turned her gaze to Kid Flash, who remained seated, his fingers flitting through the folds of his wallet in search of something, a look of hard tenacity fixated on his face. Finally he smiled and produced three fifty-dollar bills. Her eyes widened in disbelief at this ludicrous sum.

"$150?! On what planet?!"

"50 for the tab and 50 for the trouble." he replied nonchalantly.

"And the other 50?"

"That's the tip," he grinned, "The waiter and I are pals."

She shook her head incredulously at this gesture, but relented. There'd be plenty of time to talk about it after they punted these creeps straight into Iron Heights Penitentiary.

"You turned your back on us, Jinx. Forgot where you came from. All for some booger-brained do-gooder." Gizmo uttered over a clamor of cracking knuckles.

She could feel her blood rushing: it had been some time since she'd encountered superpowered crime and she was craving for a fight. Maybe she couldn't raise her hands against Antoine, but she could certainly make do with the old gang.

"But that's okay. We can remind you. After all… what are friends for?"

She took notice of their enthusiasm, too; contrary to what their prior performance suggested, there was no malice in their eyes—no bad blood, only a certain… giddiness.

"H.I.V.E. Five, leave none alive!" Gizmo squawked as he skyrocketed out of view.

And with that Mammoth was catapulted into Dyson's brick foundation by a red-and-yellow blur, causing the building to grumble in protest. Within seconds a score of crimson hicks were yeehawing over to the giant's aid, leaving See-More and Kyd Wykkyd to Jinx. They gave each other a glance of hesitation as they observed her goading gesture, hands radiating fuchsia energy. Kyd Wykkyd was first to move, shifting to an aggressive stance. She cut the mute short with a hasty blast, only for his dark visage to dissipate. Her eyes widened as she detected a _whoosh_ behind her: she knew she should have taken him out first. Turning just in time to deflect the flanking fist, she retaliated with a swift kick to the chest, launching the teen back a few feet. She made a vitalizing flourish, compelling the discarded shards of ceramic to propel themselves at the mute from all angles. That would keep him busy.

She directed her attention to See-More, who initiated his own assault. Reluctance swept over his face as he aimed a flurry of strikes at the sorceress' head. She weaved through these effortlessly. Jab. Jab-cross. Left hook. Uppercut. Elbow. Jab. Backfist. In the background she could make out the disharmonious choir of battle. The Billies' irate shouting. Mammoth hurling furniture. Kid Flash's amused laughter. Gizmo whizzing through the air.

"I guess it's too late to ask you to come back to the team?"

Jinx's focus returned to her foreground. See-More had halted the barrage of fists in anticipation of her response. His face was solemn. His query genuine.

"I'm afraid so." she affirmed.

It wasn't that she hadn't considered it—her having stayed with the team. As a matter of fact, it was a scenario that occupied her mind quite a bit. In darker moments, though she'd loath to admit it, she wished she could disavow it all: redemption, the Titans, Kid Flash—all of them. At such times, she'd rather be encased in a block of ice with the rest of her team. Slaving under Antoine, it was difficult to be optimistic. Yet on the best on the best of days… Her eyes wandered towards Kid Flash, zipping across the restaurant arena with ease despite the Billy clones' attempt to blockade him. See-More's singular gaze followed hers. In tow came a despondent sigh of acknowledgement.

"I get it," he managed with a remorseful grin, "For all it's worth, Jinx, it's good to see you again."

Her gaze softened.

"See-More…"

"I'm going to go back to hitting you now."

Once again, she could feel Kyd Wykkyd's presence behind her: it seems he had cut down the last of her porcelain pals. He and See-More attacked in tandem, their synergistic combinations forcing Jinx into a desperate dance of evasion, with little room to counter. Two swipes from Kyd Wykkyd followed by a vicious right hook from See-More. A jab-cross from See-More and a sweeping kick from Kyd Wykkyd. As each exchange stacked in complexity, she found herself wearing thin. Adept a gymnast she was, she couldn't keep this up forever. Examining her two opponents for signs of fatigue, she noticed that they had locked eyes. Shit.

Kyd Wykkyd teleported out of sight, in sync with See-More shooting a concentrated eyebeam at Jinx. She clumsily dodged this, wincing as she felt her skin crackle against the sensation of a hot stove pressed against her arm. Another _whoosh_ indicated that this tactic had a follow-up. She made a frantic dive to the periphery, slinging a desperate hex at the sound. Surely enough, the mute was there, slicing at the air in a motion that would have likely bisected her.

"You might want to rethink the cape." Jinx called out to him.

Kyd Wykkyd looked to the cloth instinctually, before returning a dumbfounded stare in response. Suddenly, the fabric burst to life, as if activated by her words, ensnaring both him and See-More like the coils of an Anaconda. Struggle as they did, the cape did not loosen—rather, it constricted all the tighter with each exhale. Finally, they plummeted to the hard wood floor, with See-More landing on top in a humorously suggestive fashion.

"Y'know, you two actually make a pretty cute couple." Jinx snarked at them.

Brushing herself off, she examined her arm. Surely enough, the laser had burnt right through her sleeve, leaving behind an uncharacteristically red patch of irritated skin. She turned to address the chaos emanating from the other side of the dim room. It seemed that Mammoth had grown exasperated with Kid Flash's antics and resorted to using one of the Billies as a blunt weapon, much to the chagrin of the other clones. Swinging wildly as he did, the giant's extended range still could not seem to peg the taunting speedster down. Instead, an inadvertent number of Billies were tee-shotted into low orbit. It was a tragically needless case of irreversible brain trauma on the clones' part. She'd have intervened, if not for sudden pelting of artillery fire. Sidestepping this linear hailstorm, she scowled at what she assumed to be its source.

"Leading from behind, Gizmo?"

Whatever cloaking device he was employing deactivated, and the smug weasel appeared floating above her.

"Just waiting for a good shot." he retorted coolly.

"Well I made myself very available," she sneered with arms outstretched, "Why don't you come down here and get me?"

"Careful what you wish for, scudmuffin." he muttered under his breath.

Pressing a button on his suit's chest, the boy genius multiplied—projections, if she recalled the tech's function correctly. The 10 Gizmos soared around her like vultures on a dead animal.

"Look fast, witch!" one exclaimed as it swooped down upon her, prompting her to cartwheel to the side.

Another followed suit, only to be vaporized after a single hex. One by one, the clones made nosedives, jeering at her as they darted past. And one by one, the clones disappeared with a single strike. It was as cheap a parlor trick as she'd ever seen. Fine by her. Given enough time, she was sure she'd elicit a "Crud…" from one of these imps. With three remaining, they all plunged at her from different sides. Catching her by surprise, one of these Gizmos retracted his mechanical wings, replaced by four metallic walking appendages—piercing tips pointed directly at her torso. It was an impressive display of subterfuge. On the skin of her teeth she managed to bound away. The boy came down with tremendous force, his walking legs perforating the hard wood beneath them like a knife through jelly spread. He was quick to recover and soon put her on the retreat. The arachnid-like metal jabbed at her relentlessly with what seemed to be every intention to impale her.

"H.I.V.E. Five, leave none alive? Really?" Jinx jived at him.

"Sue me. Like yours were any better." he verbally riposted as he backed her against the wall.

He smirked at her slight panic, arching back his mechanical forelegs in preparation to shish-kabob her. She remembered learning a maneuver at the Academy for situations when cornered. Rusty as she was, it was her only chance at escape. She'd have to run up the wall, using her legs to kick off just as she felt gravity starting to reclaim her. The idea was to land behind the opponent in a lavish back flip—hopefully without breaking her neck. In theory, she'd land on her feet. In theory. She inhaled. Channeling as much momentum as she could, given her claustrophobic circumstances, she dashed up Dyson's foundation just as Gizmo's spider legs punctured the brick. Pressing away from the comfort of a solid surface, she flung two airborne hexes at the lodged metal appendages, severing them. As she poised for impact with the inviting stability of ground, she could hear the little goblin cry out, "My tech!"

Much to her shock, she managed to stick the landing—she'd hardly garner any first-place ribbons for the performance, but it was a pleasant surprise. Gizmo was not so graceful. Without the support of his forelegs, the top-heavy framework came crashing backwards, unceremoniously ejecting the boy from his walking apparatus and settling him right at her feet. She put her hands on her hips and smirked. The boy raised himself of the ground, brushing himself off, before thrusting an angry rapier of a finger at her as he lambasted.

"Do you have any idea how much that tech costs?!"

"Don't care."

"Why I oughta—"

His voice cut off, and the livid expression on his face was promptly overtaken by concern.

"Jinx, what is that?"

Her eyes darted down to her ankle collar, the S.T.A.R. acronym clearly visible. Crap.

"Don't worry about it." she dismissed as nonchalantly as she could.

"How stupid do you take me for?" he growled as he glowered at the metal in revulsion, "They put a leash on you?"

"Back off, Gizmo."

"Who did it?! Was it that birdbrain?! I'll disintegrate that snotty—"

"I said back off!"

He looked at her incredulously. He was likely about to start chewing her out again, but was prevented from doing so by See-More, who apparently escaped his restraints.

"Yo, Gizmo!" he shouted in a panicked tone, his eye rolling away to reveal a clock, "Look at the time."

11:15 it read. 45 minutes 'til curfew. Gizmo was alarmed at the sight of this, for whatever reason.

"Crud. Let's blow this stand! Scatter!" he ordered.

Mammoth, who was in the midst of trying to wrestle Kid Flash to the ground, relented in favor of charging through Dyson's bricks to create a makeshift escape route. He was followed out by his compatriots, save Gizmo, who turned to her.

"This isn't over." he threatened before bolting through the exit in a random direction.

"Not by a long shot." Jinx muttered.

Kid Flashed brushed himself off.

"We giving chase?"

She thought back to See-More's clock. 11:15. She had time.

"Gizmo's mine." she affirmed.

He nodded, speeding over to peck her on the cheek. As he made his exit, he saluted with a grin.

"See you tomorrow, my fluffy little blueberry chocolate chip muff—"

"Aw, shut up." she interjected, a slight smile forming at her lips.

With a wink and a shrug he was off. She could hear his voice carrying on the wind, "Shake a leg, slowpokes! I'm on you!"

Jinx turned her attention back to Gizmo's technological apparatus: the little runt wasn't going to get far without it. Leaving the restaurant, she was greeted with a scene akin to a refugee camp, what with all the spooked civilians. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him, sprinting as fast as his stubby little legs would allow him towards Keystone City's working class zone. She pursued him, narrowing the gap. She's spent the last month having to keep up with _the_ Kid Flash, what was Gizmo to her?

Evidently, he was quite a bit. In spite of his laughably short strides, he managed to maintain a comfortable buffer distance between himself and her—twisting and winding across the different intersections and alleyways. She'd turn the corner, only to find that the little shit had created some obstacle for her: the fetid contents of a toppled trash can, a suspiciously low-hanging sign, a street vendor's tipped over cart (complete with his entire damn inventory)—she swore she even saw a stray banana peel at some point.

"For Kid Flash's girlfriend, you're pretty slow." Gizmo called out over his shoulder.

"And for someone who calls other people 'gasbags', you talk a lot." Jinx countered, eliciting a childish laugh from the boy.

"It's just like the old days, huh Jinx? When I'd take your sketchbook."

"And beg Kyd Wykkyd to teleport you outside of a five mile radius?"

"Or hitch a ride on Mammoth."

"Yeah, I remember."

She took note of the gradual change in scenery as their chase progressed. Local bakeries, cafés, and restaurants gave way to shabby apartments and the occasional liquor store. Lively streets became eerily empty and dead, with not even a solitary rat inhabiting them. It was as if the city had gone to slumber in the matter of a block's travel. All that remained was the industrial orange glow of the streetlights towering above them. It pervaded the sort of atmosphere that would make even a seasoned boxer grow uneasy at the sight of an alleyway.

"We had some good times, didn't we, Jinx?"

"You getting sentimental on me?" she asked skeptically.

"Don't be like that. You gotta look back fondly on some of it, right? Rising the ranks at the Academy. Evicting the slug-munching Titans from their tower. Crashing the mall. Fending off an interdimensional pie demon."

"Yeah… I guess some of it was okay."

Satisfied with this answer, he fell silent for some time—likely gone to reminiscing—the only sounds between them being their footsteps against the pavement. After a couple of minutes, he spoke again.

"For what it's worth, I hope things work out between you and him."

What a gesture! And from Gizmo of all people!

"You want an invite to the wedding?" she cackled.

Gizmo merely snorted.

"Not what I meant."

She was jerked to an abrupt halt. Her collar contracted around her neck with the momentum. She tried to steady herself, only to be swallowed by a darkened alley. Her legs swept out from under her, and she crashed to the asphalt. She clawed against the ground just to be jolted upwards—the wheeze of tearing fabric being apparent. A gloved hand entered her field of vision, pressing firmly against her mouth as she attempted to cry out. She felt a chilling prick in her arm and fell silent. Her eyelids grew heavy as pitch black enveloped her. The last thing she recalled was a coaxing shush as she drowned in the abyss.


End file.
